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Currently Featuring the Autumn/Winter - 2015 edition

Review Submission/Guidelines for year round submissions

Stop by the "Reading Room" for a New Flash Fiction Story
"The Visit" by Judith A. Lawrence

Visit the Music and Poetry page to hear Klyd Watkins'
Poem to Music "Dance." 


Lilly Press

River Poets Journal

A Journal of Poetry/Prose

Art & Photography

Below - Sampling of  Poetry and Art from the 2015
Autumn/Winter Edition

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On that page click on "River Poets Journal Autumn/Winter 2015.pdf

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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

Musical Composition by Sandy Bender
"Half Sleep"

To listen to musical composition click on musical note below
This page was last updated: December 4, 2015
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Judith Lawrence, Editor
Two Worlds

A blue lake captures my soul in its
unmeasured, unimaginable depths
where a new world better than lands
survive drinking immortality.

Howling wolves pierce melancholy
and the dropping leaves stuck with
fever of spring bows down
before the majestic stance
of endless sky and waters.

Echo of unknown sounds emerging
from the unexplored ends of the woods
run wildly and circle around ears
like unquenched souls.
Striking against the trunks of topless trees
they become one with lingering serenity.

The bridge connecting them to my land
is left broken for years;
perhaps broken by the Gods
and none has dared to swim across
for both the worlds, 
one of religion and other of reason
stand with obstinate swords and spears
wearing T-shirts of barriers and laws
in either side of the bridge.

                                       ©Sonnet Mondal

All  Paintings on this page by Charle Ephraim Burchfield 
Goldenrod and Shed
Is it barbaric to write poetry 
after Syria? —for Amel

Perhaps there is music
In the black scrawls
Maybe there is poetry
In the inky splatter
Because she is here 
With shrapnel
Right above her eye
Her forehead bled
Through her first home
The mother’s belly and womb
But she has come
With the first water
Breaking red
Her brow with a soft arch
Is already scarred
The sky that falls in pieces
Is still starred
The scabs in the mother’s arms
Also fold
When the child is in
A cradle hold
The night circles under their eyes
Only pillows sleep on the bed
The morning sun will also rise
And the mother and child
Will share its light
With the mortar and the clots
That are hardened
Without cotton swabs
Or warm water
But, remember
She has arrived
                              ©Anuja Ghimire

The Luminous Tree

Stella could tell me 
About nights of heat
passion after a fight
stripped of airs and ancestry

Tennessee wrote truth
Boiling over and exploding
Seeking refuge
in childhoods patched blanket

Like Blanche I fear age
And loss
longing for paper lanterns
To soften the harsh light

comfort is fleeting
hiding in cool baths 
or Wild Turkey oblivion
wearing a glass and glue tiara

It will not stop time
nor erase 
it all comes back in the morning 
that streetcar keeps coming

                            ©Kathleen Jacobson

The Abandoned House
Lament of a Catalpa 
Each night when the moon meanders
through the doorframe of darkness,
I dream history, the future,
feel the blade of the past
chopping at my strength.
Last night I was fence posts.
Taut barbwire cut through my limbs,
my cries covered by wailing wind.
Who will grieve with me?
The cypress? The cedar?
I watch them lift their leafy hands in praise,
shake them with green gratitude
because they are still standing regally. 
The night before, I was railroad ties
with my soul splintering as I tasted the trains’
coal broiled breakfast, felt their steel wheels
churn across my trunk cracked like ribs.
The Creator wrung clouds like cleaning rags.
The aroma of fresh rain could not wash away
the stench of their motoring 
to mysterious destinations.
Who will mourn for me? This croissant 
May morning?  The child leaning 
against my rough body, reaching 
for my ripe fruit? The hummingbirds
on holiday in the folds of my flowers?           
I stand alone in the entrance of this day, 
look up long enough to see the sun is a massive 
mole on the wide cheek of a glassy sky.

  ©Loretta Diane Walker

Winter Bouquet
The Elusive Mermaid

Secrets in their tiny boxes, dreams sleep in glass,
occasionally you fish them out to swim among
the ordinary stones, hoping to catch a glance
of her floating hair and beryl-colored scaled 
fins. Before sleep, you walk on coral reefs of
deep orange, emerging through murmuring
inlet where current is heavily stocked with fish.
Any moment the skies may darken and the sea 
spews billows in great ascent, and through the 
narrow slit of the mist she may rise, when the
open earth, rumbling air, and sheer stone walls 
of spray collide. She may walk to shore, peeling
free the briny coat, flesh molds over bone, the
moon churns gold on her tresses. Then how will 
you explain the way your thoughts slide beneath 
the half-light and the ghosts of bird rasp your 
voice in pained cackle--when the head knows 
not what the heart speculates. You will need to
speak the language of the sea, of a midnight's
wail that breathes beneath the underbelly of the
words, one part air, the other part earth. And 
maybe, just maybe, as her limbs morph back
under the waves, memory will carry the part of
speech where delicate shift in barometer will 
remind her of your refrained whisper, and some-
where in the midst of liquid depths, the tracing 
of your vanishing leaves itself on lime-rich shales.

                                                 ©Lana Bella  

Roadside Stream