Our website is dedicated to promoting the creative talents of poets, writers, artists, and photographers all over the world.
Currently Featuring the Autumn/Winter 2014 Edition
Review Submission/Guidelines for year round submissions
Stop by the "Reading Room" for a New Flash Fiction Story
"Feeding Time in Winter" by Scott McPherson
Listen to beautiful new musical compositions by Sandy Bender. Click on the musical note at the bottom of the page.
River Poets Journal
A Journal of Poetry/Prose
Art & Photography
Below - Sampling of Poetry and Art from the Autumn/Winter 2014 Edition
To view the entire Journal - Select "River Poets Journal PDF" from the menu above.
On that page click on "River Poets Journal Autumn/Winter 2014" pdf file
To purchase the printed Journal through Paypal, click on the
Book Store menu link and then click on the "Buy This" button for the Journal
Poems by River Poets Journal Contributors
All future rights to material published on this web site are retained
by the individual Authors and Artists/Photographers
New Musical Composition by Sandy Bender
To listen to musical composition click on musical note below
This page was last updated: January 5, 2015
Judith Lawrence, Editor
There is a kind of slow nightmare
that goes on for so long
the monotonous series of defeats
calls itself a victory. Perhaps it makes the assertion
because you do not feel certain fears or pains
but in truth you are protected
in a madwoman’s womb
where the placenta is the heavily accented voice
of a bicycle. It can last longer than nine months
or less than nine days
but you will never know
attached to such umbilical boredom. Inside her belly,
apart from God and time,
you create a routine out of discarded materials like
tragedies, depravities, seashells, or nightcrawlers.
I fashioned mine
from G.I. Joe action figures
and the caring rage
of a breakdown. Later I was born
in the aisles of an anarchist bookstore
surrounded by cynical clerks
in a city I have never known. An old poet
was talking to a young poet about modern sex toys,
the young poet answered in dactylic hexameter.
Baby in the Womb by Dan Lacey
How Events Conspire
Because your face opened like a field
to the first of morning
in my mind late last night
I want to climb you like a blush
as though scaling a wall
and dropping into a garden
to capture your silence and your laughter
for use in the design
of a dazzling coincidence
whereby you occupy
the exact same space as the sun
at the instant it was born
then return to your earthly form
in a flash of intoxicated light
shocking me awake
That's okay I can always find you
by falling back to sleep
It's as easy as walking through the sky
to hunt for our supper
Scholars differ some believe the Hebrew alphabet
is a clever forgery of your body
others just repair to the library and weep
I know that your sympathies extend
all the way to the shivering of stones
and I can feel your heart beat in my tongue before I speak
warm as my hand upon an old radio
strong as an eyelid
which can lift a whole day on its wing
So yes I want to climb you like a blush
and breathe through all your buttonholes at once
Singing the Blues by Donna Shortt
Go Forth & Multiply
Like it or not, wanted or not,
every species feels compelled
to replicate its kind.
Florida’s pesky tassel flower, Emilia fosbergii,
straggles the landscape everywhere,
common, undesired and vexing to the eye.
From the garden’s weeding yesterday
I saved some purple tassel flowerets
and set them in a jar,
their tufted headdresses
spoking from their stems, seducing,
as asked of any butterfly or bee,
and begging for my care.
But safe in perfidy and silence,
they dropped their camouflage last night
and morphed to downy seed heads
rigged up and twirled to fly.
Astonished and betrayed,
I watch this winded morning
as they leap their tilting flower crafts
and parachute their germen--
brazen, wantonly and free--
across the frowning lawns.
A Rose in Winter by Rosie Sanders
these are the ancient souls
of the dead
translucent glass mosaics.
The monarchs’ orange wings
quiver in warming sunlight
fir trees in Michoacan.
Seamed with black-edged
undulations of wings
whispering among themselves
sweet spirits know the way home.
A kettle whistled, the teapot waited.
A turf fire glowed, a dog barked.
An old woman weeped
on the rags of history.
A chair left idle, a worn laced cloth.
An empty mug, a broken biscuit.
A kettle died, a teapot mourned.
Tea Break by Judith A. Lawrence
September Journal: Friday, September 6, 2013
Sunset hides behind a quilt of clouds.
The warm steady drizzle radiates
copper tinted light out across the
yard and through the evening trees. The wet
air glows. A stroll to the shallow stream
and plank bridge, then back to the back porch
deck, wears kelpy wet hair and a gauze
scrim on the glasses. The airy glow
sweats into the limp t-shirt. Along
the rim of the deck table hangs, like
miniature Chinese lanterns, a ring
of flawless teardrop pendants. At the
door, a shudder, like a shaking dog, runs
down and up the spine. A small spray falls.