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 the creative talents of poets, writers, 
artists, and photographers all over the world.

Currently Featuring the 2017 Special Edition

"Windows"

Review Submission/Guidelines 
for year round submissions

WELCOME TO

Lilly Press
River Poets Journal
in its 10th Year 
of Publication

A Journal of Poetry/Prose/
Fiction/Memoir/Flash
Art & Photography

Below - Sampling of  Poetry and Art from

The 2017 Special Edition - "Windows"

To view the entire Journal - Select "Special Editions-Anthologies" from the menu above.

On that page click on Windows - 2017 Special Edition.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: July 29, 2017
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Wetland Song

The April morning’s quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of shit. All my life I’ve tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On Seaman Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimney to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I’ve gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.

                                             ©Robert Ronnow
Fractured Light

The slanted sunlight late one Sunday afternoon
came through a pane of antique glass
in my kitchen. The glass looked whole to me
but thrust an image on the wall beyond
of fractured pieces.

Since the window kept the wind and rain out
and let the light in
I looked closer at the pane
for signs of cracking.

It seemed complete as any piece of glass
I view between myself
and the light.

Yet a shadow of a limb finished the picture
of splintered light on the
wall. It bent in rhythm
down and up
as if check-marking this image
for retrieval.

Then the outside light altered.
I saw next
dancing rainbow.

                           ©Linda Graham Brockman 
High on the Mountain the Forest Sleeps

except for the locusts, who
never. When I wake I’ll go
there, build my cabin over
time. Each cedar board to
earn its place. I’ll salvage
small-paned windows

from the burnt-out farmhouse
in near-by Ashland; no one
shall notice but the thrushes.
The sashes will have to be
rebuilt, but I’m good with simple
tools. I must pare my library.

Present: Russians, of course,
the elegant Mr. James, three
Emilys, the Polish poets of hunger,
a leather Yeats given me
by a married lover in a motel
room in Chicago. A breeze

through the bent hickory,
I can’t bear to trim, will brush
the cabin’s tin roof softly
like the bobcat stalking. I’ve kept
my father’s reading rocker—
burgundy hide, already

cracked when he bought it—
my only chair. Father tucked
a postcard from Panama 
in the wire rim of his glasses
to shade his pale blue eyes
from the bright lamp glare,

but I’ll leave that lamp behind:
my cabin won’t need electricity
or running water. Kerosene
lanterns satisfy; I could read
by them if I try, but 
mostly at night I’ll listen.

                              ©Maud Poole

Visit the Reading Room for a new Flash Fiction story
 'The Inconvenience of Poverty," by Anita Nahal
Sønnen Ole kigger ud af vinduet by Laurits Andersen Ring 

Paris through the Window by Marc Chagall

Woman Reading by Aaron Shikler
The important first step

In my dream, there are
country life scenes that
come to life where windows
meet life. A raw, joyful
scattering of the future of
unclenched seed hangs in
the balance but you’re (the lover) are
a stranger to these country
life scenes of trees and rain.
Brilliant fields and the transformation of
harvest there. Foam is a
stranger to these parts. Flowers of
fire and flame on this hot
summer’s day. I pass through
the channels of the tide. The floating, the
gathering. Searching for the

dream world of philosophy,
education, the independent study of
horoscope in beauty and fashion magazine. I
pass through the tide meeting the comfort 
of homesick strangers,
there longing for Christian fellowship and
thanksgiving just like me. Encountering the
passion of the Christ there.
It is here where I fish for Jesus.

                                          ©Abigail George 

Painting by Alexei Butirskiy

That Window Overlooking Maple 

The memory moves faster than the pen.
The merlin lands minutely on the wire,
But flashes off in sunlight as I near.

Behind my eyes are attics full of rooms
whose only access lies in photographs.
The merlin lands minutely on the wire.

That window overlooking maple trees,
where winter sunsets blazed in molten red,
It flashes off in sunlight as I near.

The snowbird that I rescued Easter day
lay stunned but blinking, heating up my hand.
The memory moves faster than the pen.

The morning kitchen silence breaks and hums,
The rubythroat appears, and chirps, and drinks,
he flashes off in sunlight as I near.

The face of one long dead begins to form.
I see his thick brown hair wave in the wind,
He flashes off in sunlight as I near.

The breath of God upon my neck, so clear
and sudden once in one of those close rooms...
The memory moves faster than the pen.

I reach into the ocean's briny mouth.
My hand emerges empty, wet with tears...
The memory moves faster than the pen.

                                       ©Anne Higgins  

La Primavera by Anselmo Bucci

The Window by Henri Matisse