41. Scrivener's Pen Literary Journal, Inc.: Janet Buck janet buck. janet buck is the 2002 winner of the Gival Press Poetry Award. She alsois a sixtime Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://scrivenerspen.org/Authors/Poetry/buck.asp

@import "../../colright3-3.css"; @import "../../colright3-3.css"; About Us Search Site Map Discuss ... Free E-books Janet Buck Janet Buck is the 2002 winner of the Gival Press Poetry Award . She also is a six-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Three Candles, Red River, Pierian Springs, Stirring, PoetryBay, PW Review, Offcourse, The American Muse, and hundreds of journals world-wide. In 2002-2003 Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in Zuzu's Petals Quarterly, Mississippi Review, Artemis, The Montserrat Review, Recursive Angel, The Foliate Oak, Southern Ocean Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Coelacanth, Cordite, CrossConnect, and The Oklahoma Review. To read more of Janet's poetry, see: http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html http://www.janetbuck.com Last Updated: 5/2/2004 8:47:28 PM Poetry published in Scrivener's Pen: Last Updated: 11/29/2003 12:10:00 PM All Upstream Counting Placemats Drip The Ferry ... Red Eyes Scrivener's Pen Literary Journal, Inc.

42. Scrivener's Pen: Poetry By Janet Buck Dry raceme, I droop from holding withered fruit. ©janet I. buck, 2003. First publishedin PoetryMagazine.com. Top. janet buck is a sixtime Pushcart Nominee. http://scrivenerspen.org/Archives/Volume3Issue2/buck3-2.html

@import "../../colright3-3.css"; @import "../../colright3-3.css"; About Us Search Site Map Discussions ... Free E-books Volume 3, Issue 2 Middle Ground I see your footprints inching toward the gutted grave. Abide a mattress growing sour like dated milk. Cartons waxing thin and green around the lip. I'd tape a wish, but nothing holds the curled strip to paper slabs given oceans rolling in. Sheets are rancid, pillows caked with acrid drool. Why bother with this dueling in wars I'll only lose. The last of crimson tulips sit in bug-chewed bowls too shriveled to enjoy the color. This is living middle ground between the joy of birth and death. The going horse has iron thighs and pillar knees carelessly they drum the dust. Soon the music fades and stops; I will be that crazy, desultory soul without the chair you clearly were. For now I'll weep and settle quite unwillingly for stalemates with the avalanche. Dry raceme, I droop from holding withered fruit. ©Janet I. Buck, 2003

43. Poetry Magazine, Janet I. Buck, Spring 2004 First Published in Adagio Verse Quarterly, Fall 2003. © All Copyright,janet I. buck. All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission. http://www.poetrymagazine.com/archives/2004/Spring004/PastFeatures/buckj.htm

Janet I. Buck USA jbuck22874@aol.com The Perpetual River This August your death will be a decade old and I will remain a flagrant child plopping my foot at the base of a door that wants to close. No doubt you'd side with gusts of wind even as I argue them. Death should be a set of tonsils a pen or a scalpel removes, but it isn't it's always perpetual rivers running through pastures we love. Lost memories are Hitchcock's seagulls in a room their beaks all darts aimed at circles of a meal. Edgar's ravens in deep, omniscient black, shouting from branches, taking up space. Seasons pass on calendars, but lack a color I cannot name. If you were here, you'd chide me for wasting the pulse of a sun, for missing the taste of raspberry tea while its fragrant and randomly hot. "The Perpetual River," acknowledgment for Facets Magazine. The Cleft Lip "The Cleft Lip" first appeared in OffCourse Beckoned by the Reckoning My finger lodged in slamming doors should teach me to leave knobs alone, but some rooms win by virtue of size and weight of course your past is one of those. Time is that hairbrush I cannot toss no matter how messy the web. Your penmanship on mealy notes, runes and Sanskrit meant to trip a fountain in my acrid eyes. Combing margins of old books disturbs a heavy layer of dust and so much more. Beckoned by the reckoning, I remain the stray, stray cat clawing arches of the light. I stumble across a photo of you sipping on gin, reading beside a roaring fire. Grief gloats like an opium pipe, its gray/white swirl in the furnace of August heat too stuffy to bear, too viscid to finger away. Once again your deathbed grows a sea of posters thick enough to make itself my Alcatraz.

44. The Green Tricycle: Traveling Light, With Janet I. Buck Traveling Light with janet I. buck Table of Contents. http://greentricycle.com/travel/traveling.html

Traveling Light with Janet I. Buck: Table of Contents Home Welcome Contents Contact Us ... Site Search Please Support The Green Tricycle through Our Affiliate Links: Home Books Music DVD Prints Online Courses Thank You! Tight Spots A new motorhome and two optimistic but inexperienced travelers and a dog meet their match on the narrow streets of San Francisco. The Theme Park Roughing it in the Rogue River National Forest, Buck-style. Starving Poets Get the inside scoop on what it really means to be a poet. Pie Pans Join Janet in the kitchen as she wrestles an unsuspecting apple pie into the oven. Janet visits the Siskiyou National Forest with disasterous results. Get out the Calamine lotion! [ Home ] [ Welcome ] [ Contents ] [ Contact Us ] ... Cayuse Press

45. The Green Tricycle: Issue #15: Risk: Janet I. Buck woman hands. ~janet I. buck. janet I. buck and dozens of journals worldwide.Email. © 2004 by janet I. buck. All Rights Reserved. http://greentricycle.com/15/15risk1.html

Issue 15 Risk Janet I. Buck Home Welcome Contents Contact Us ... Site Search Stinging Graves A statue of Mary beside your grave is all I have for concrete faith and yet I'm here, brushing dirt around the dates inscribed with too much certainty. I approach with sweaty palms, knowing even bitter loss, its aching and portentous gift, belongs like ribbons in my hair. Metallic rain falls from clots of gray meringue, a cemetery comes alive with daffodils and visitors yellow horns and streaming tears all march to drums of memory. Despite my doubts, I move as if you're watching me. No one litters in this place, no one screams despite the urge. All the plots so neatly pruned of gangly weeds names uncovered by the wind. At least we risked amour , I say stand to leave before the moon just vanishes behind a soapy twilight cloud. I'm crushing fingered dandelions, wishing for the full blown rose that never lasts beyond a single avid breath, this life of rainbow and mirage bordered by empty pots cracking like old woman hands. ~Janet I. Buck

46. Janet Buck Issue 7. June 2001. janet buck. janet buck has a Ph.D. in English and teaches writingand literature at the college level. All work © janet buck. Positioning. http://www.photoaspects.com/poetry/zine7/janet.html

Issue 7 June 2001 Janet Buck The year 2000 was packed with readings, publications, awards, and opportunities for Pushcart Nominee Janet I. Buck. Her first reading tour stretched from Washington to California to New York, where her poem "Acrylic Thighs" was taped for Japanese Television in the lobby of The United Nations Exhibit Hall. The piece was paired with original artwork by Ms. Adele Ramirez, translated into five languages, and sent on tour around the globe. May 2000 brought the release of her second e-book of poetry entitled Bookmarks in a Hurricane and in June, Word Wrangler Publishing released Desideratum's Doggie's Dish, Janet's first collection of humor, available in both print and e-book form. She did several radio interviews with her local PBR affiliate Jefferson Public Radio and spoke at the opening of the Auburn Library in Seattle. In January 2001, Buck was the featured contributor for The Paumanok Review, The Poet's Cut, and Moondance. Her first audio CD of poetry and music entitled Before the Rose is now available from Art Villa Records. Janet's work is scheduled to appear this year in The Montserrat Review, PoetryRepairShop, Thunder Sandwich, Megaera, Ascent, Swagazine, San Francisco Salvo, Verse Libre Quarterly, interweave, Erosha, Atomic Petals, Tintype Review, Poetry Magazine.com, The Clark Street Review, Steel Point Quarterly, and Ygdrasil. To read more of her poetry and find links to her current publications, go to:

47. Janet Buck Issue 12. Fall 2002. janet buck. janet buck is a threetime Pushcart Nomineeand the author of four collections of poetry. janet I buck. Index. http://www.photoaspects.com/poetry/zine12/janet.htm

Issue 12 Fall 2002 Janet Buck Janet Buck is a three-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Three Candles, Red River, Pierian Springs, Stirring, PoetryBay, PW Review, Offcourse, The American Muse, and hundreds of journals world-wide. In 2002-2003 Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in Zuzu's Petals Quarterly, Mississippi Review, Artemis, The Montserrat Review, Recursive Angel, The Foliate Oak, Southern Ocean Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Coelacanth, Cordite, CrossConnect, and The Oklahoma Review. For links to more of Janet's poetry, see: http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html http://www.janetbuck.com Knocking at the Locking Door Surrounded by a pungent sea of forest pines, the world seems tall and I feel short. Memories our hands won't touch are brittle cones lacing the floor to the lake. Its indigo blue a blending of chills, orange suns, protruding rocks we've never climbed.

48. The Annihilation Fountain Issue #8 - 3 Poems By Janet Buck 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://capnasty.org/taf/issue8/janet.htm

3 Poems by Janet Buck City Snow Beetle Juice The Septic Tank TAF Index Woman in Motion Future of Art Speed Of Love ... Rick Doble - Artist's Statement

49. Verse Libre - Janet Buck janet buck Lementing the Hole Dizzy Batik Splitting the Load Lamenting the HoleMother died and you stepped in. Perhaps I resented your feet. janet I. buck. http://vlqpoetry.com/v3e1/buck.html

Janet Buck Lementing the Hole Dizzy Batik Splitting the Load Lamenting the Hole Mother died and you stepped in. Perhaps I resented your feet. Your silk red hair and freckles when my skin was plain. The way you made me iron all our collars twice when what I really needed then was flat admitting nothing in my life was smooth. Maybe it was liquor used as nursery rhymes. Maybe it was seeing ways my suffering and leg-less dance were draining swelling bank accounts. Tart, tart words of lemons wrung, years of clinging to their seeds. I talked into the empty bottles sitting at our fancy bar. Then I learned to sip from them, use the cork to fill the sigh. You watch me limp across the house, suggest a pill to meet the pain as if it is a real pearl in all our gritty oyster beds. I'm typing up your book club speech, correcting sloppy homonyms

50. Janet I. Buck Tumbleweeds on Desert Floors ralogo.gif (1221 bytes). When you died,my sister and I flipped a grimy nickel to decide which of our http://www.js.spokane.wa.us/kimerav7n1/buck.htm

Tumbleweeds on Desert Floors When you died, my sister and I flipped a grimy nickel to decide which of our salt-stoned cheeks would tackle the stash of memories huddled in darkness under your bed. I lost. My hands went under the skirt, felt sorrow's marsh and bygone years. My heart a slowly ticking bomb. Dust balls did their little cartwheels tumbleweeds on desert floors. Reminiscence in a maze love is a wide word, a wicked presence when it hides in the curled lip of a recent grave. There was nowhere to turn but into the downed sails of pilfered dream. When I dropped on my knees to look, forced my fingers into this void, this cheap cadeaux, your gritty plumes of tenderness sat felled, still twitching like snakes who buffet a while before finales snap batons. She wanted to know what I found. A melted vial of Revlon Red that once had graced your china lips. Sonnets of your terry slippers printed with your clawing toes. Photographs like sticky pie dough in my palms.

51. Janet Buck Bones Borders. Yugoslavia 1942. A villa with its roses shot likebabies still in diaper shrouds. Ice baths of a river s colon http://www.js.spokane.wa.us/kimerav4n1/buck.htm

Baseball Cards Honest Salt Frostbite The Fragile Vase Yugoslavia: 1942. A villa with its roses shot like babies still in diaper shrouds. Ice baths of a river's colon could not stop the stand you swam. Treading water in the Nile with alligator penniless. Your servants felled by rifle fire broken candles, bowling pins. In the "land of the free" you were pocket change, but courage was your coat of arms. Every gift you made or chose had history woven in its seams. You traded wealth for justice clouds. Crossed the border in the night. Sipping poor was broken glass. Exchanging bricks for raw, raw clay. The dribble of a legend flounders held in hands you crossed for "right." Broken English on your tongue; a heart intact in every way. The vigil was embracing life- you cupped its cheeks and held it close. The "wrong" is how you suffered cold from those who thought themselves above. A Yugoslava dignitary in your land.

52. Janet Buck, Bosom Caves HOME. ARCHIVE. SUBMISSIONS. SUBSCRIBE. CONTACT. MASTHEAD. EVENTS. http://www.elevenbulls.com/buck.html

Bosom Caves Janet Buck HOME ARCHIVE SUBMISSIONS ... ABOUT In this issue: Pickles Petrson Smiths Jenna Kalinsky Living Backwards in Kentucky Ron G. Dilla Three Installations Jenn Schmidt Paintings Richard Ellis Eleven Bulls To sign up for the Eleven Bulls mailing list, please enter your email address below: "We took them both," they said in a casual tone as if they might give them back. As ether ebbed, the avalanche of pain increased. Head to toe seemed string-less harps. Hallmark cards were pinned to walls. They restrained her arms to the rails, so she wouldn't go looking for tissues of dream now steeping in formaldehyde. Her husband sat, his sweaty shirt sticking to a plastic chair, waving a wilted bouquet at her eyes, their wagon wheels imbued with rust. All his gears were oiled with prayers, moot passages of promises to love her just the same and all. Bosom caves were ticker-taped with bandages.

53. 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

54. RETORT MAGAZINE PRESS CENTER - New Book By Janet Buck « New Book by janet buck », Welcome Guest. PoetWorks Press Guest, NewBook by janet buck « Thread started on May 3 rd , 2004, 756pm », http://retortmagazine.proboards15.com/index.cgi?board=Pressrelease&action=displa

55. Nasty :: Poetry :: Academia At Its Brattiest janet buck Selected poems. Poetry » January 2003 Sizes of Sadness.At Zeinhom Morgue in ancient Cairo bodies alive are puking on http://nasty.cx/archives/001429.php

Janet Buck: Selected poems Poetry Sizes of Sadness At Zeinhom Morgue in ancient Cairo bodies alive are puking on luck, sifting through litter for glowing remains. Forced by fear to lift white sheets, stare at Hell on withered earth, then put death back like cupboards lined with cans of soup. Relatives reach for golden teeth, familiar scars, omnipotent symbols of heartbeats once perhaps they can prove a person was here before the ravaging flame. The goal is to garner a paltry sum, toss coins at starving infancy weeping on the tortured road so they can avoid the slots of their tombs for only a moment of sand. The goal is to find a respectable spot to place the despicable ash. At home, a half a globe away, my neighbors gripe about the wind blowing a pile of leaves into a garden they recently groomed. I race to meet the mailman's truck, sort through stacks of trivia, slice my finger on an ad, and thank the world I have my hands. I take my tongue, use its juice, lick a spot of grenadine blood; I watch as the river resumes. At Zeinhom Morgue in ancient Cairo

56. Nasty :: Poetry :: Academia At Its Brattiest janet buck Selected Poems. Poetry » June 2002 Passing On. janet buck is athreetime Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://nasty.cx/archives/000934.php

Janet Buck: Selected Poems Poetry Passing On George died. At the funeral the priest was speechless. And so his brother said: "George was strange. Wouldn't write with ballpoints pens. Preferred fountain pens. Said they really scratched the paper. Said he could always spill the ink bottle and fill an empty moment." George embarrassed Mother. After they painted the old brick walls of City Hall gray and white, George sanded for 48 hours straight. Spent a month in jail for it. In the white-paint dust on the sidewalk he inscribed: "You ought to know you stupid pricks, It's mortal sin to paint those bricks. Had God wanted 'em seen in white or gray, He'd simply have changed the color of clay." What can I say? George was odd. Didn't like women. Said they flawed his self-sufficiency. Hated school. Said there was only one way to spell principle. In his last dying breath, George uttered: "Bury me with my books. I can read while I’m waiting." Return to Main Submit to nasty. About the Nasty Crew Back Issues (courtesy of NLC) ARTICLES FICTION POETRY purple apples ... warning want to submit a cover?

57. Janet I Buck: Mentress Moon janet buck s poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in A Writer s Choice, TheMelic Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Kimera, The Rose Thorn, 2River View http://www.sundress.net/mentressmoon/archives/july2000/janet.html

Putting a Garden to Sleep A lousy satin comforter I bought to lay upon your bed - cheer up walls of closing plays. Corn husk arms lay silently in pockets of the dirty sheets. Tulips of your eyes would shut Your mind was a garden aching for sleep. I tried to keep it up all night. Read you scraps of poetry We laughed out loud like clean sorbet between a meal of sauerkraut and whipping cream. Thumbtacks of our memories were losing heads; I pounded in the sharp remains with bleeding fingers of hammered grief. Paced the Louvre of pictured halls, madly chasing renaissance. Conversing was a one-way tunnel - cobwebs of a morphine drip. My father said you needed it to make the ending easier. with melancholy quantum leaps. The second day was turtle slow. Your flesh a bruised mosaic now staring up at choir pews. Janet Buck 's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in , and hundreds of journals world-wide. Two of her poems have been nominated for this year's Pushcart Prize in Poetry and she is a recent recipient of The H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence. In December 1999, Newton's Baby Press released her first print collection of poetry entitled Calamity's Quilt . Janet is one of ten U.S. poets to be featured at the "One Heart, One World" Exhibit at the United Nations Exhibit Hall in New York City in April, 2000. In September 2000, she will be on a reading tour in the Seattle Area, including a feature at The Hugo House and Barnes & Noble. She is currently on the editing and review panel for the up-coming book: Chicken Soup for the Volunteer's Soul. To read more of Janet's work or schedule a reading, go to

58. Poetry Showcase: Janet Buck Pierian Springs Issue III 02/15/02 04/15/02 Poetry Showcase janetbuck. janet buck Initially published in The Jefferson Monthly. http://www.pieriansprings.net/issue3/buckpoetry.html

Pierian Springs Issue III Poetry Showcase: Janet Buck Current Issue Archives Submit Editorial ... Resources Fountains in the Deep It was a garden Rappaccini's daughter would admire. A secret spot where those who lost a leg to war, an arm to whiskey spilling on the road, would have a place to chew the cud of wishing they were whole. The hammock fear a cradle swinging in the air. Staring eyes the needled evergreens in pity's forest standing tall. The heavy scent of all the trees they might have climbed and races they would never run. Their crutches weeds that grew among the easy lilies of a day. The turning wheels of sally forth a chair that rolled from base to base because the carriage others had wasn't waiting at the door. It was a coming out of sorts. A cable wrought in faith. The tears in bottles corked by years and years. The milk that fed the lurid shrub of tragedy and filled the fountain hope. © Janet Buck Initially published in Chrysanthemums, 98 Reprinted in The Spirit of Song, 98 Poetry Showcase Page 2: Janet Buck What's New www.janetbuck.com The China Doll Fear's merry-go-round begins its waltz.

59. Interview: Janet Buck Pierian Springs Issue III 02/15/02 04/15/02 Interview janet buck. A GlimpseInterview janet buck. janet buck the name rings a bell, huh? http://www.pieriansprings.net/issue3/buckview.html

Pierian Springs Issue III Interview: Janet Buck Current Issue Archives Submit Editorial ... Resources A Glimpse Interview: Janet Buck Janet Buck: the name rings a bell, huh? Once a literature teacher, Janet Buck took a serious approach to writing roughly five years ago, and within that five-year span, she has accrued countless achievements; so many in fact that we would be here all night if I were to list them all. But it was not the name "Janet Buck" that inspired me to conduct this interview. It was not the endless amount of publications and awards. It was quite simply the grim, yet stylish approach she takes to her work. From my perception, there is a backbone to Janet's writing: Behind the interwoven metaphors and unique wordage, there are multi layers of pain and grief that surface through her words. I found these hidden, symbolic layers to be quite intriguing. So, my intent was to capture a glimpse into the soul of Janet Buck. In her own words, Janet has graciously revealed to us the woman behind the wordage. Upon the conclusion of this interview, don't forget to read Janet's poetry by clicking the Poetry Showcase link below.

60. Janet Buck - Thunder Sandwich #9 janet I. buck. http://jimchandler.net/thundersandwich/page7.html

Janet I. buck Home poetry Prose Art Loving on the Narrow Ledge Amour encore, a risk as scores of music go. For Whom the Bell goes flat yet rings in lieu. A prefix for non sequiturs. Its parlance beating gong of need. Sweater threads that tug and pull, survive to meet unraveling. Slick and sick at times to play. Abandoned strings of violins. Back seat old jalopy body craving bows and certain stretch. Too consuming. Always drooling. fate is always living down. in barnacles of memories. Men who slapped me black and blue urgency I read like Braille with ships that steer through tight canals. Cool and wet in ancient marble pummeled by gray pounding rain. I lose a water ski in lakes take to swimming by mistake. A Venus with her arm removed, craving saws that wrote that break like tree limbs grab an autumn leaf. Heart fart tartar on my teeth, preferring flaws to un-lived dreams. The way a tear belongs to grief. Distributing Death When you died, everyone wanted something of your heritage. A sofa, tarnished silver trays. Some symbol of collected grit dancing away from grabbing hands.

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