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of poets, writers, artists, and photographers
all over the world.
Currently Featuring the 2016 Seasonal Double Issue
for year round submissions
River Poets Journal
A Journal of Poetry/Prose
Art & Photography
Below - Sampling of Poetry and Art from
The 2016 Seasonal Issue
To view the entire Journal - Select "River Poets Journal PDF" from the menu above.
On that page click on "Seasonal Issue - 2016 - 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
To listen to musical composition click on musical note below
This page was last updated: December 14, 2016
News From A Turkish Village
They would bury the girl
in a grove of cherry trees
and etch in white stone
proof that she was.
In the beachside cafes
they said she’d been poisoned
by mussels, that her mother
had bundled her possessions
and tossed them into the sea
at dawn, pink and blue
and the call to prayer
for a village funeral
just after noon. But I knew
her death-truth was elsewhere,
some flank of rocks, some
fact she’d revealed to her father,
her body scarred,
then scarred again.
The baby would not be,
would disappear nameless
into the soil with her
where years after
rows of cherry would make
the horizon white
and she more forgotten.
All Photography below and in the Print Issue by Jeffrey Dunne
Rumors of Their Death Prove Premature
It’s only September but nights grow
like magic beans; does time telescope
exponentially? What happens
when the lost icons reappear?
Imagine darkness, riding the wings of a cold front,
scattering the early adopters who changed
color first, descended out of sequence.
Was it accident or trickery?
Summer hides on the paths
along the old aqueduct.
I swear I saw those telltale Indian Pipes
growing by the stump of some old oak
toppled in a winter storm past,
years after the fact a subtle rebirth.
Who can comprehend how a wind begins?
In the Caribbean as a ripple
a wave of a moth's wings or
a flower plucked near an unnamed star
however it begins it tracks along the
Gulf Stream gathers the sea
ahead of it sprawls northward impertinent
packing a wallop they say on the radio
I worry for my gentle house my obedient tools
my timid basement and so as the wind picks up
I organize the shelves in my garage
the first drops thump against the roof
I let fall the door
stand in my driveway
as if to shelter my invalid garage
from this thundering schoolyard bully
a single raindrop hangs from the tip of my nose
I let it fall into my mouth
salty sweat and Caribbean mist
another raindrop hangs from the tip of my nose
hands on hips
I blow that drop
back to the southwest
Who can comprehend how a wind begins?
What Love Can Do
Eight year-old me on a June day 1950 in Rochester, New York
On family vacation to Grandpop's home, far from Brooklyn's pavements
Here's a backyard - vegetable garden, flower bed and deep at the end
The playhouse with shingled roof and glass window
High enough to stand in, low enough to be white knight on that roof
But the mark that settled it for me -inside floor to ceiling
Taped magazine pages of the movie stars of those years
Bogart and Bacall, Cagney and Taylor, Gable and Turner
16 year -old Aunt Lorraine
With your summer sweet smile
Had done her magic -rainbows enter
My black and white city world
You, dear Aunt tears at my pains of the years
Knees no longer at easy bend
House keys living a life of their own
Family and friends passing on
But look here inside me the playhouse
Those photos…Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland
Me at 8 given
A bit of what love can do
like butterflies alight
ready for flight.
are voyagers in a sea of faces
the anchor loosens
and lulls them aimless.
Some people lack the
sticky substance that
binds them to others
in all ways
©Judith A. Lawrence
Visit the Reading Room for new Flash Fiction Story
'Transitions," by Judith A. Lawrence
At a Wallace Water Fountain in Paris
That tiny tight-skin liquid-container
crossing the street in this other country,
where hearts break, where love tinkles
glasses in the leaves, where fawns abound.
I backtrack to us drying off under
a dripping Live Oak. Crossing the street
I see she is anxious about living
in treadmill boots, itching for fleur-de-lis.
I remember there
she is again, that figment, a daydreamer’s infatuation.
at a Wallace water-fountain in Paris,
the space between us evaporates too fast.