Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Memories of the Body Broken Review of Ambition Is Not a Dirty Word Review of The Blood of Flowers Review of The Girl Who Stopped Swimming Review of The Poet Laureate of People Who Hate Poetry Creative Nonfiction My Boo Radley By Rebecca Ward A Walk in the Park By Madonna Dries Christensen Poetry Hearts and Diamonds By Andrena Zawinski It Was Then I Kissed Her By Andrena Zawinski In By Andrena Zawinski Death of Word By Tony Brown Fiction Being Caught Up With My Ego By David Landrum A Voice In My Head Screamed By J. A. Tyler About the Contributors © 2008, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Editor - Elizabeth Murray Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
In, at a poetry reading By Andrena Zawinski In the front room, in a bustiere, in a big brimmed hat, in a bouffant skirt, a painted lady suited for a street scene in a postcard glossy sings her nightly blues refrain. Standing room only, ears cocked for what poetry can make of everyday living, this one is for the father, dead for years. There are tears. In the back room I crawl in in on the lap of an overstuffed chair face nuzzled in in the crook of the arm in the warm of the scent in a cushion of soft in the trinity of daddy rock quiet, in the flutter of lids stained by night, in this place that has been condemned, in my heart murmuring: Take my hand. My palm is up. It has an open wound. |