61. Capital Of Nasty Electronic Magazine 3 Poems by janet buck City Snow. A warm June day and still it snowed. Icecubeswere the people kind. Sad and laugh-less in the city's colon. http://www.capnasty.org/taf/issue8/janet.htm

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62. Ariga: Poetry: Links By Janet I. Buck (About The Crash Of The Space Shuttle) More janet buck at Ariga The Zeinhom Morgue and Megiddo Junction, Two poemsby janet buck janet's web site More janet I. buck online, through Google. http://www.ariga.com/visions/poetry/janetbuck013.shtml

Online since 1995 For Pleasure Peace Search: All Products Books Magazines Popular Music Classical Music Video DVD Baby Electronics Software Outdoor Living Wireless Phones Keywords: Prefer Amazon.co.uk? Poetry Submissions policy and form Links By Janet I. Buck For a moment, an hour impending war is set on the back burner of a global stove as the world drops to quivering knees. The President calls Sharon. Oceans quite dividing us have blended in rivers of blood to mop; sadness is a votive's wick stretching over continents. Soil is soil is soil is soil. Loss is loss is basic loss. Seven heroes spring from stars the mourning veil is dropped across each color of the daunted eye. Footprints look the same today. Grief has several billion shoes. Their laces torn, their soles with canyons over flesh. There are no borders inking maps. Weeping is unanimous. No frisking issues for a sin no blame laid out like soggy quilts, no righteous swords at odds with points. Is this a letter straight from God scribbling the need to draft some passing of the olive branch?

63. Ariga: Poetry: Poems By Janet I. Buck Poetry Submissions policy and form Poems by janet I. buck The Cubicle The cubiclehas three bleached walls, a cold, blank floor, and a curtain that shrieks http://www.ariga.com/visions/poetry/janetbuck012.shtml

Online since 1995 For Pleasure Peace Search: All Products Books Magazines Popular Music Classical Music Video DVD Baby Electronics Software Outdoor Living Wireless Phones Keywords: Prefer Amazon.co.uk? Poetry Submissions policy and form Poems by Janet I. Buck The Cubicle The cubicle has three bleached walls, a cold, blank floor, and a curtain that shrieks like a banshee under the axe the minute a victim is bared to the light. What ought to be colored is not. The hospital gown strikes our eyes as cellophane on ugliness. Olding's given neglig?e bought only by desperate hands. A nurse taps your wrist to bring up a vein, which of course is hiding in fear. A puppy to pet, a pencil to drum, a drink to caress some toy would distract us from thirst. I worry the scalpel will slip. When they roll you away, part of me pulls invisible ropes. I twist in a chair like paperclips to pass the unpassable hour. The right bend and a firm wish might be the savior you need for the spine stem drooping as water turns black.

64. Janet Buck (author) On AuthorsDen Discover and contact janet buck on AuthorsDen. Get the latest information onjanet buck, bio, books, news, events, short stories, etc. janet I. buck. http://www.authorsden.com/visit/author.asp?AuthorID=1130

65. Janet Buck by janet I. buck An interview with janet buck Visit janet's Site More janetat Artvilla A note from janet Just a note to let you know that my latest http://www.artvilla.com/jbuck.htm

Poetry of Janet I. Buck Apple JuiceNot Vinegar All those portals of possible salted by a raging sea. I wonder now, behind the tales of cyclones (never sugar cane) why this time ‘round our marriage bed stays warm through freeziest frost. Why kissing you is apple juice not vinegar. Why talking isn’t mushy peas or Jello molds with torn insides. Sex games aren’t the crapshoot of cherish landing a lame number on tables with wobbly legs. Your goodnight graze across my cheek fond signatures of active art. Touching skin, you open me and save the box a cashmere sweater at Christmas time. So carefully, strumming the port of call of love. Playing with devotion’s tags as if they have a fragile side like cushion-centered marigolds. by Janet I. Buck The Intervention It was a quiet convention of gurgling grief. Silences usurped her words. History had carved a bust of livid surreptitiousness. She washed down pills at morning’s break with fancy brands of Chardonnay my sister thought was apple juice. She stood in a quivering stance and slept that way all her ghosts had interrupted operas of her rituals.

66. Janet Buck It Was Time and Others By janet buck A book should be either a bandit or arebel or a man in the crowd. DH Lawrence. by janet I. buck. Final Picnics. http://www.artvilla.com/wastime.htm

It Was Time and Others By Janet Buck "A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in the crowd." D.H. Lawrence It was time to divide your things. My arms stayed pinned to my sides like tired doves, toes stayed curled around a branch split by razor lightning bolts. I tottered and I lost my grip. Mother launched her surly arrows, lodged them in whatever flesh crossed her borders of pain. Striking out at rings around a toilet seat as if they were death itself taking a piss in a messy arch. I understood the ache to clean, her answer to leaping ahead, strides beyond this sad reverse, where prayers were linen packed with snot. Scrub the awning of this hell, paint over the fork of this flame. I loved the wealth of dust on shelves. Your soul resided in those books. Binding smelled of glue you were when winds took off with a dream, when nightmares called for gathered ash, some sort of urn and elegance. Leather wraps you sewed for words made me wish to dance with thought. Ways you read a fingerprint upon a glass as if the oil were part of some eternal well. These were all my cats to pet when logs on fires became gray coal.

67. Janet Buck MiPo January Issue Volume 11 Back to. Shrinking Moons. janet I. buck. The moon shrank like dwindlingsoap. Copyright © janet I. buck 2002. All rights reserved. http://www.mipoesias.com/2003/buck.html

January through March 2003 ~ Volume 11 Publisher D. Menendez, EIC Jim Christ Back to Shrinking Moons Janet I. Buck The moon shrank like dwindling soap. Its rocks in terms of memory were jagged, sharp, an unforgiving brittle edge. As you grew old, comforted by surly ruts, I grew a muscle and a brain. We split like walnuts splinter under heavy boots. Little pieces of the meat made sculptures of the agony. Felicity would round the stone. Two spoons should touch in chilling soup. What was green amidst the gray can grow a garden even though the pebbled hail shredded petals viciously. All that seems marooned is not. Wishing crimps the pie again even when the crust is burned. I think I see a ship with lights a pointed star that isn't silver swastikas.

68. Burning Word :: View Forum - Janet Buck Burningword.com a literary magazine and conflux. A collection of poetry and prose updated daily. http://burningword.com/forum/viewforum.php?f=21

69. Pulse - Contributors Page janet I. buck. janet buck is the author of four collections of poetry.Her others. For more of her work, visit janet buck EK Caldwell. http://www.heartsoundspress.com/contributorspage.htm

Heart Sounds Press OUR CONTRIBUTORS Last modified March 10, 2003. Without the following people, PULSE would not exist. It is our privilege to present... Tammy Bakos Tammy Bakos has been writing short stories since she was a child. She is a member of Tunnel Vision Writers Project, Inc. Her work has been featured in Short Story Theatre at 12 Miles West Theatre and at the Montclair Public Library. She lives in Montclair, with her husband, and is currently at work on a novel. Kimberly Blaeser Roselee Blooston Roselee Blooston is a writer, actress and teacher. Her plays have been widely produced, in New York City, in regional theaters, on cable television, at the Edinburgh Festival and have aired over National Public Radio and Voice of America. She has read her poetry and short stories at '2 Miles West Theatre, the Montclair Public Library and as part of Bloomfield College's No Word for Inhumanity exhibit, a collaboration between writers and visual artists, which has also toured. Her fiction has been published online in Moxie Magazine. As founder and director of Tunnel Vision Writers' Project, Inc., a non-profit organization, Ms. Blooston leads support groups, organizes readings, initiates inter-art collaborations and teaches workshops for writers in a variety of genres. She lives in Montclair, New Jersey with her husband and son. Michael H. Brownstein

70. The Poet's Cut 2002 janet I. buck. janet buck is a threetime Pushcart Nominee andthe author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently http://www.poetscut.com/finalcut/pc030602.asp

The Poet's Cut Vol. 5, June 2002 Leslie Laurence, Editor Home June Issue Shelly Reed Taylor Graham ... Scott Villarosa Endings That We Don't Admit We don't hold baby showers for death. Your eyes, on the brink of the close, ask why since its visage, its shadow follows us all. Each kiss goodnight a tenuous peck from hot-wired birds longing for fate to move south. Water in a vase goes black. I dump its sewer in the porcelain sink, swear at stains of bile green. Add flowers to the grocery list. Someone hammers at the door to sell you caskets, discounts on a funeral plan. We laugh like tea cups on the edge. But humor's bacchic hieroglyph is more than I can bear to read. The omen of a thunderclap in grit gray cloud. My skin, allergic to the storm itching to return the wool, settle into silken lies. Leaves paste themselves in asphalt cracks. The wind of it all fierce with a razor snow rattles a chandelier. I will go shopping for lights. After I mop the checkered tile as if I can change the turn of the road. The ZeBook Company Privacy Statement

71. Janet Buck janet buck. janet buck is a threetime Pushcart Nominee and the authorof four collections of poetry. Her work has recently appeared http://www.angelfire.com/oh/gryphonpubs/biographies/janetbuck.html

Janet Buck The ZeBook Company

72. Poetry By Janet I. Buck Poetry by janet I. buck. The Studious Suicide He sat on cliff’s thinedge. Carnal text in swollen rain. Ready to leave a hideous shelf. http://www.angelfire.com/fl/mouthing/buck2.html

Poetry by Janet I. Buck The Studious Suicide He sat on cliff’s thin edge. Carnal text in swollen rain. Ready to leave a hideous shelf. Panting at the sights of rocks. Stuck to nearly warm regards of memories that held him firm but never seemed to weigh enough. Tea cup tremble, firm lost grip, rocked back and forth in missing music, dining on lost dignity. Enshrined in mantras of his ghosts. An unfinished sentence wanting that end like comp. assignments read in class. He’d rubbed religion’s cue stick fast, applying prayer and sentience. Doctrine missed and death did not. Where on earth was ressurrect? Time was an oven and he was done. Font of tragedy was thick. Jumping seemed a train to catch. Ocean way below his feet could never be as cold as hope. He read a book and tossed it in the airy current. Pages of his published tears. He knew an index of regret like every other wayward soul. The Tourniquet Our bodies have survived their lots, combing edges of the dance. I watch you drink and crave that booze, a bandage worn for sixty years. Own my urge to wash away in bubbles of a Sunday brunch. Petrie dish of monied madness, fingers dipped in golden custard, seeing leaving as dessert. Our providence in lucky hands that do not know true hunger’s rule. Where open hearts are surgeries and no one likes the look of blood. Cartilage wearing thin on knees that might have learned from praying on their wounded pulse. Some tourniquets have happy endings. Some just merely stop the flow. I press myself upon a poem like plungers tucked in an old garage. Stirring cobwebs, scorpions, Plaster Paris finding a city for chalk to set, thinking how true art must smell, wishing back lost lavender.

73. Poem By Janet Buck http//www.albany.edu/offcourse http//offcourse.org Two Poems by janet buck Pickingat a Cataract While I disappear into the white sheets, coal black print, a http://www.albany.edu/offcourse/summer01/janetbuck.html

http://www.albany.edu/offcourse http://offcourse.org Two Poems by Janet Buck Picking at a Cataract While I disappear into the white sheets, coal black print, a little tilted, trapped in plights of heroines, twenty shy petunia buds open slyly in the sun. I tell myself that wisdom's tailor dropped a thread and tickled me, left spangles of a butterfly more intricate than all my dreams. Bliss I write, a fake among the gems before stone cataracts. A monarch lands upon the chaise. I mistake its brush of wings for common bugs. Too caught in my atrocities, a horse to ride, a ghost to feed. Beside me sits a coffee cup, the hour I didn't drink and touch. Missing silky polka dots unraveling on summer's scarf. Beauty sends me to my room. I think about the sin I am. The Hangover Familiar with this fallen moon, I ask you point cold blank: "Do you drink every night?" An answer, the hangnail of silence, bleeding color, forming crust. Conversation peeling back as if it hit pedestrians, wants to start its path again. I know that freight train head trip morning seize

74. Offcourse #16 Janet Buck Three Poems, by janet buck. Yard Sale Blues. janet buck is a sixtimePushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.albany.edu/offcourse/march03/j_buck.html

http://www.albany.edu/offcourse http://offcourse.org Three Poems , by Janet Buck. Yard Sale Blues I sat at home imagining the sale of that "trivia" bridging rivers of your life. Meat in green pistachios I couldn't share with strangers roaming city blocks. Mother said: "It's all just junk." Alliteration broke my heart. I hugged the dusty books you left, rubbed their scents upon my skin as women do with inserts of a magazine because the bottle isn't there. I held your slippers in my palms as if the dents where toes once lay could teach me moral contredanse. What was simple trash to her was my immutable truth. A saxophone without its reed lay sideways on the sinking bed. its cherished wood now roamed by ants. Money couldn't shower sadness, clot the paper cut of death. I needed knickknacks of your love. This a brand of moving on my hands would never celebrate.

75. The Poetry Of Janet Buck The Poetry of janet buck. Copper Blood. Friday sky of blue/white gauze. but nutmeg strips of bullet shells. by janet I. buck. Along the Seine. http://www.bcsupernet.com/users/ascent/copperandblood.html

The Poetry of Janet Buck Friday sky of blue/white gauze perfect as a layer of paint. Autumn seems a nice acquaintance much like dust upon a book. Speakers blast with rock n' roll. Tires squeal happy otters sliding rocks. Traffic seems to have no brakes; I wish hope could be the same. At 5 p.m., my husband's hand will rub the brass and he will feel for something soft beneath my shirt as I wash lettuce in the sink. I barely hear the radio through music of the chirping robins dancing in a bath I've drawn. Across a bitter continent on deathly quiet Eastern streets, a sniper fires a body falls. Seven victims in a month. Profiles of the killer say he's overjoyed at owning slabs of black and white that bang against the door of dawn. Funeralmarchesruntogether. Maybe there's no real god to punctuate, correct a word like hate applied to every corner of this earth. Pamphlets in a mourning service won't replace the missing warmth in seven sinking king-sized beds. Seven victims in a month know nothing now of harvest gold but nutmeg strips of bullet shells. by Janet I. Buck

76. JANET BUCK [BeeHive 01:02] volume 1 issue 2 JULY 1998, janet buck. 6 Poems. http://beehive.temporalimage.com/content_maps/12d.html

volume 1 : issue 2 JULY 1998 JANET BUCK 6 Poems

77. Poems By Janet Buck Poems by janet buck. Sour Milk Sugar Peas. janet buck's bio janet buck is athreetime Pushcart nominee and the author of several collections of poetry. http://www.pigironmalt.com/buck.htm

Pig Iron Malt fine literature for beautiful people Home Current Issue Library Submit ... Links Poems by Janet Buck On CNN, battles split like chromosomes. Times like these, soil is a Kotex pad diffusing blood, over-powered with its scent. We hug outside the evening news as if wool hours are scratching silk. This autumn was a tainted gift, marked by thunder, marred by smoke. Kites of it, just kites of it. Strings all loose in helplessness. Suddenly, the leaves are gone. Frost arrives in glaciers on the sagging porch. I fumble for a stepping stone. Sun's last rind is grated light poking through the mutton clouds. My head returns to horror shows, couples riding air to doom, long parades of onyx limos oozing down the city streets.

78. October Moon - Winter 2002 2002 janet I. buck. janet buck is a sixtime Pushcart Nominee andthe author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently http://www.octobermoon.org/omwin02/omp03win02.asp

Winter 2002 Leslie Laurence, Editor Tim Relihan Stephen Collicoat M. J. ... Parker The Holding Tank All the glitter, red and green. Color clashes brutally against these walls of vivid gray, the soft chenille of death arriving in its given time. A nursing home needs Christmas most, but all the toys and posters seem like fallen flags in battles lost. This is mortal's holding tank. Grief is septic, then ignored. Love shouldn't be a sport to quit from stinging marbles of the rain. A group of buzzing carolers surround a bed and close their eyes crickets under wooden decks singing of the summer lost. Life itself is now a fist on punching bags. Nurses wear their angel pins on collars greased with wishing someone's family would waltz the empty corridors huddle close on frozen bleachers, attend the closing of the game. Reaching for that miracle, the brush does not believe the paint. A habitat of agony to decorate with tinsel threads since stars have flatly disappeared. Hairs are thick with winter ice. Distance rubs the darkness in.

79. Tragic Pearls: Poems On Disability By Janet I. Buck Tragic Pearls Poems on Disability by janet I. buck. About the Author and Her Poetryjanet buck is a transfemoral (AK) amputee who lives on the West Coast. http://www.usinter.net/wasa/contents15.html

Tragic Pearls: Poems on Disability by Janet I. Buck About the Author and Her Poetry Janet Buck is a trans-femoral (AK) amputee who lives on the West Coast. She teaches writing and literature at the college level and has published over eighty of her poems in journals, magazines, and e-zines across the United States. Writing for her is catharsis. "The empty page is where I cry, where I feel, where I come a little closer to the goal of self-acceptance. The kettle-drum of stoicism we often beat until we break the stick; I hope that my writing will be, in some small way, a touch of harmony and an escape valve for others who stand beside me on this journey." For maximum effect, the following poems should be read in order. "The ones I chose for the WASA website represent the spectrum of the acceptance process. The first poems embody very stark admissions and realizations, but their tone moves toward coming to terms with a disability. There is a balance of tragedy and hope in these verses. "My hope is that the substance of my poetry will touch those who need both its compassion and its admissions; that it will, in some small way, ease the burden of those who read it." Battleships The Bruise The Fall Cobwebs ... Return to Homepage

80. Janet Buck Tryst Poetry By janet buck Tears have earned lamenting songs, but as itstands, stay letters hands will never send. © janet buck 2002. http://www.tryst3.com/issue1/buck1.html

Tryst Poetry By Janet Buck Current Past Submit Links ... Home Letters Hands Will Never Send Time is thick, its thighs impossible to part. Days are numbers, little spots on calendars your mind won't track. Three square meals defined by what you'll pour from bottles, any kind with leaving proof. You think you're coy. Pasting shades across deep sockets of your eyes. As if you can cram moldy years into margarine tubs, snap their lids the way a woman learns to stretch a meal into eternity. Those suffer scraps have earned nice plates and napkin rings and gentle listen parsley sprigs. A spritz of reciprocity from children you have borne and grown and harvested like rows and rows of yellow corn. Behind gray glass are smoking signals wafting through the kitchen nook. I want to strip and stomp and crush adages of cover-ups, but words are such illegal drugs. The ones you take are sadly not. Everest of hidden grief so tucked away it doesn't drain the batteries of Father's precious black remote. Zeroed in on putting greens and headline news when velvet guts of agony belong to X-rays under light.

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