Always, I am amazed by you.
Day and night you never fail to,
Make me see the integrity in you.
I am blown away by your strength,
And what’s…
Take that strength and use it for good.
I love how you are just.
Only you have won my full respect and trust,
Nobody else…



photo cred: Beth Johnston


Guest Poet: Alfonso Camín

La partida

Era yo un niño de alma blanca

cuando di al viento mi primer cantar,

y con el alba y el zurrón al hombro,

baje del monte familiar

hacia la costa donde me esperaban

la emoción del abismo y el abrazo del mar.

Atrás quedaba el monte abuelo,

la casa blanca como un vetusto palomar,

la higuera madre y el parral caduco,

el olor a resinas del pinar,

la barbechera y el oropel de alondras

y la copa opulenta del pomar,

y la sombra del castañedo

y el corpulento robledal…

-Alfonso Camín



What is in a word?
It started in the 13th century,
As a deifnition for
A false religious belief,
Or irrational faith in supernatural powers.
The word superstitio
means prophecy,
dread of supernatural,
And even…
excessive fear of the gods,
and pagan practices.
They also saw it was,
A religious based fear or ignorance,
Which is incompatible with truth.

Superstitions are unstable,
And false.

With all the fake news and fear,
To me it is unclear,
Whether half of what we hear is true,
Or just clothed in superstitious hue.
How do we know what is real,
When all around us we feel,
The push and pull of ideology,
And a focus on individuality.

If our societies will stop declining,
It will be because of a unifying,
Embracing of the truth,
Instead of the latest media spoof.

At the bottom of it we ask,
What is behind the mask?
How can we tell what is real,
And beyond what we feel?

Guest Poet: Robert Burns

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang ‘s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

– Robert Burns


Guest Poet: Charles Bukowski

The New Place

I type at a window that faces the street
on ground level and
if I fall out
the worst that can happen is a dirty shirt
under a tiny banana tree.

as I type people go by
mostly women
and I sit in my shorts
(without top)
and going by they
can’t be sure I am not entirely
naked. so
I get these faces
which pretend they don’t see
but I think they do:
they see me as I
sweat the poem like beating an
ugly hog to death
as the sun begins to fail over
Sunset Blvd.
over the motel sign
where hot sweaty people from
Arkansas and Iowa
pay too much to sleep while
dreaming of movie stars.
there is a religionist next door
and he plays his radio loud
and it seems to have
very good tubes
so I am getting the
and there’s a white cat
chewed-up and neurotic
who calls 2 or 3 times a day
eats and leaves
but just looking at him
lifts the soul a little
like something on strings.
and the same young man from the nudist
magazine phones and we talk
and I get the idea
that we each hang up
mildly thinking each other
somewhat the fool.

now the woman calls me to dinner.
it’s good to have food.
when you’ve starved enough
food always remains a
the rent is a little higher here
but so far I’ve been able to
pay it
and that’s a miracle too
like still maybe being sane
while thinking of guns and sidewalks
and old ladies in libraries.
there are still
small things to do
like rip this sheet from the typer
go in and eat
stay alive this way.
there are lots of curtains here
and now the woman has walked in
she’s rocking back and forth
in the rocker behind me
a bit angry
the food is getting cold and
I’ve got to go
she doesn’t understand that
I’ve got to finish this thing
but it’s just a poor little neighborhood
not much place for Art,
whatever that is, and
I hear sprinklers
there’s a shopping basket
a boy on roller skates.
I quit I quit

for the miracle of food and
maybe nobody ever angry
again, this place and
all the other places.

-Charles Bukowski


Guest Poet:José Ángel Buesa


La gracia de tu rama verdecida


Árbol, buen árbol, que tras la borrasca
te erguiste en desnudez y desaliento,
sobre una gran alfombra de hojarasca
que removía indiferente el viento…

Hoy he visto en tus ramas la primera
hoja verde, mojada de rocío,
como un regalo de la primavera,
buen árbol del estío.

Y en esa verde punta
que está brotando en ti de no sé dónde,
hay algo que en silencio me pregunta
o silenciosamente me responde.

Sí, buen árbol; ya he visto como truecas
el fango en flor, y sé lo que me dices;
ya sé que con tus propias hojas secas
se han nutrido de nuevo tus raíces.

Y así también un día,
este amor que murió calladamente,
renacerá de mi melancolía
en otro amor, igual y diferente.

No; tu augurio risueño,
tu instinto vegetal no se equivoca:
Soñaré en otra almohada el mismo sueño,
y daré el mismo beso en otra boca.

Y, en cordial semejanza,
buen árbol, quizá pronto te recuerde,
cuando brote en mi vida una esperanza
que se parezca un poco a tu hoja verde…

-José Ángel Buesa