miller's pond
Vol. 1 - Web Poetry
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Poets in the pond:

Tim Bellows
Greg Bernard
Julie Damerell
Holly Hartwick
Thom Keller
Marla Landers
Bob Mustin

Older and Wiser
by Julie Damerell
At six she cried 
for the worm 
she'd unearthed, 
fearing its safety 
out in the open. 
Now seven, 
she plots to cut a few in half 
for the birds 
whose nest she plans to build. 
With mowed grass 
and berries, 
a little dirt, 
and vertical sticks to help 
baby birds learn
to fly, 
she's going to make a world. 
I could tell her 
it's not that easy.
But maybe she's exactly what the birds 
have been waiting for, 
maybe she's their dream 
come true, 

 Julie Damerell hails from Wayland, N.Y. and is just beginning to spread her wings as a poet.
If you like this poem and wish to contact the poet, e-mail her at
This poem also appears in Pigs 'n Poets,

Perfect World 
by Thom Kellar 
In a perfect world. 
The 4 faces chiseled in Mt. Rushmore 
would be Johnny, Kris, Waylon, and Willie, 
OJ Simpson would be stamping out vanity plates 
alongside the Unabomber in San Quentin 
every wanna-be Doctor, Priest, and Lawyer, would be 
made to watch Paul Newman in "The Verdict" at least 50 times 
and a public school education would include mining the mother lode 
of irony found in the life and times of Muhammad Ali 
In a perfect world. 
the Government would find it unnecessary to spend 50 million bucks 
trying to prove a president committed adultery and lied about it 
the NRA would wither up and die due to lack of interest, 
It's army of Lobbyist picked off one by one through random gunfire 
all the camouflaged, soldier of misfortune, pin-headed, bubba-boys would collectively decide themselves not smart enough to exercise the right to vote 
and every child would know a deep and sustaining Love 
from those in charge of their care 
In a perfect world. 
I could lay all day on the beach 
soaking up Pacific Ocean Sun without burning my ass off 
my 1970, Olds F-85, with the 396, would get better gas mileage the faster I 
drove it 
something like 100 miles per gallon at 100 miles per hour 
there would be fantastic, hole in the wall, Mexican food joints on every street 
with plenty of fresh Tortillas, Habeneros, and ice cold Negra Modelo 
and "Baby Doll" with the wandering eye would magically see George Clooney 
every time she looked my way, causing her to re-think monogamy. 

Califonian Thom Kellar considers himself an average Joe with some artistic inclinations...poetry, music, and art.
He feels poetry/prose is a way of interjecting some creative satisfaction into an otherwise unsettled and dysfunctional life.  You can contact him at:

by Marla Landers
the roads are 
& stripped, 
scoured by the 
wind that 
leaves the sea to 
cup the pastures in its 

the fields are cow-less 
tonight, and the radio coughs at 
each bend in the road as the 
pickup slips small through the night. 

here there are no streetlights. 

a silo looms tall in the far

From Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, Marla Landers is an undergraduate student at Acadia University in Wolfville, N. S. 
You can reach her at:

no deposit, no return
by Holly Hartwick
Hike the moon 
full and transient,
midsummer celtic song 
I celebrate.

Companion sleeps; 
I watch her and wonder 
what she dances. 
I hum an owl's song. 

We integrate centuries of mind 
revealed in 
Anger calms. 

You, a broken-winged bird. 
Me, navajo stone. 

It's sphere, 
the rock upon which angels rest. 

I remember standing 
under arches of winter's stars 
breathing blue crackles 
of frost. 

Once, I said 
hush a while whirlwind 
but the sound 
in the vortex 
swirled in circles, 
in itself. 

On firmament round, I 
and you fly- 

the storm circling, 
transparent and broken. 

Holly Hartwick is from Greeley, CO.   She teaches composition and creative writing at Aims Community College and hopes to teach students, if not to love language and writing, at least to understand the potency of the vehicle.    E-mail her your comments at:

by Greg R. Bernard
Grouse hunting took us into the forgotten
forests of northern Minnesota, tired shocks
laboring over washed out logging trails:
my father, anchored behind the steering wheel;
my face, taut with the determination
a young boy has in becoming
a man.  I stepped to the woods
on unsteady legs, gun oil
like silk on my bone-white hands. 

October--crisp and still--resurrected
desire despite the double-barreled
burden hanging below my narrow shoulders.
"Stand up straight and
be ready," Father warned
moments before the underbrush
erupted, an explosion of bright 
debris and blurred wings keeping time
with my startled heart. 

The damp earth revealed the spent
evidence of prvious quests:
the standard red of 12 guages; the economic black
of a 16 guage; arrogant purple--a .410.
I retrieved a cracked shell, plastic fading.  The nutmeg memory of
gunpowder lingered beneath loamy decay. 

Later, a downed bird rested against my back,
warmth draining from its body
in autumn whispers.  I turned to my father
in the pale, flat light and realized
through the white veil of breath separating us
what it was we'd been hunting. 

Greg R. Bernard is from Peru, Illinois and is an English/Literature/Creative Writing Instructor at the Illinois Valley Community College.   He can be reached for comments at:

Ozark Moon Rising
by Bob Mustin
The mountain folk just before sunset 
Are like a summer dream a slow ooze-- 
Patient and liquid, 
They are the caterpillar 
Navigating the underside 
Of a windblown leaf-- 
They crawl from ridge to ridge, 
Moving as if on the edge of a knife. 

Ad I want to be with them then, 
To watch the mountains divide the moon, 
One part floating free 
into the sparkling abyss above,
The other swimming twoard me 
On the quiet face 
Of a mountain lake, 
Hungrily like a serpent. 

It is the moment of marriage, 
The mountain folk say-- 
They cry out, let us come together 
With the laughter of children, 
And I want to join in to dance with them, 
Watching the moon rise over and over 
In their round shining faces, 
While we make circles, 
Our hands joined in the dark. 

Bob Mustin is a writer and an engineer living in Decatur, Georgia, with his supportive wife, Becca.  He writes because he loves the craft, and he hopes to perhaps make a living someday at the craft he so dearly loves.  He can be reached for comments at:

by Tim Bellows
how long it takes 
to sit still to be 
the ocean I am 

Tim is from Sierra College.  You can reach him at: 

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