81. Offcourse #19 Poems By Janet I. Buck http//www.albany.edu/offcourse http//offcourse.org. Four Poems, by janet buck.The Cleft Lip. janet buck s work has appeared numerous times in Offcourse. http://www.albany.edu/offcourse/winter04/j_buck_poems.html

http://www.albany.edu/offcourse http://offcourse.org Four Poems , by Janet Buck. The Cleft Lip. A doctor's loafers click the hall, emphatic taps to balance out drawing moans behind each door. A nurse wipes oatmeal from your chin; you blink once to say hello; then the sockets clank tin lids like slot machines, predictable with slipping luck. I can't help drooling useless tears, worrying if one goodnight will lead to shovels poised in dirt. Can't help thinking of your skin like chipped enamel on a kettle steaming loud and willingly toward some horizon I can't swallow casually. Our memories are sparrow tracks the slightest thaw might soon erase. "Come sit with me" is all you say — as if you are closing a book. A simple request from a soul, ready as ten-minute eggs, to a witness scorched by handles of time. Cat-eye weepy in the chair

82. Slow Trains Literary Journal by janet I. buck. Iced Petit Fours. janet I. buck is a twotime Pushcart Nomineeand the author of four collections of poetry, including Calamity s Quilt. http://www.slowtrains.com/issue1/buckissue1.html

Selected Poems by Janet I. Buck Iced Petit Fours "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) Away. If asked, I'll say I prefer our ghettos, not stewing in their burgundy. Real graffiti, gutsy anger, glimpses of our broken chairs that have no seats when music stops. The doorbell rings. I answer it. We march like ants toward liquor's sap, the only fluid dripping from the felled oak. Iambic chants that might end wars a tribe of Indians erased because of blood they wore on sleeves. A family that could be pines, a walking coffin in a bottle's neck, hugging the binding noose with every muscle we own. A world of iced petit fours, perfect squares, pasted in an unmet past, frosted in their Cover Girl A quart of milk goes sour. The children are bored, motionless as a stopped clock. Nimble pouring paring rite learned before our alphabets. Boxes of our wired jaws, decorated jail cells. We had whole words, once upon clarity's time. But the sonnets drowned and corks still float.

83. Passage Through August - Janet Buck Poetry Visit janet at her website The Poetry of janet buck janet buck City of AngelsTwo angels perched on an airplane s wing inside a hangar without light. http://www.augustpoetry.org/poets/Buck.htm

Janet Buck is a six-time Pushcart Nominee . Her poetry has recently appeared in PoetryBay, CrossConnect, Poetry Magazine.com, Offcourse, MiPo, Stirring, Runes, Scrivener's Pen, Niederngasse, Kimera, Megeara, Southern Ocean Review, Ariga, Facets Magazine, Three Candles, The Montserrat Review , and hundreds of journals worldwide. In 1999, Newton's Baby Press published her first print collection entitled Calamity's Quilt . Buck's work is forth-coming in Recursive Angel, Red River Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Octavo, and Zuzu's Petals Quarterly . Janet's second print collection, Tickets to a Closing Play , was the winner of the 2002 Gival Press Poetry Award; the book is scheduled for release in October of 2003. Visit Janet at her website The Poetry of Janet Buck Forgiving This Soil You are face to face with old. I need to forgive this soil, this drought blades of our mean flip words, lean as a tenderloin perfectly shaved in order to sell to the emptiness. Our fat, our grief turned upside down so no one will see. I grab the white, white flag of a page, but it trips intention into speech. I will never have a mother in you. Its fabric goes raw and bleeds. As a family friend trickles her blood on the stone of her grave, you babble about something you bought and can't exchange at a Brooks Brothers store. Is Palm Springs the only well you know? Where is the rain we deserve, the desert our agony earned. I turn to a bull with pointed horns. Wishing the skirt of your flesh could promise me more, more genuine color. Immersion foot from petty ponds, I swell with a tear, tuck it in socks that might have walked through rivers of ominous chill.

84. Southern Ocean Review Archives POEMS Brown, J. Edward / Pawpaw with a Nail Brown, J. Edward / Pacific Way Brown,J. Edward / Won in a Raffle Buchanan, David / POEM buck janet / Human Chains http://www.book.co.nz/archives.htm

Southern Ocean Review Archives First Issue, 12th October 1996 Second Issue, 12th January 1997 Third Issue, 12th April 1997 Fourth Issue, 12th July 1997 ... Thirtieth Issue, 12th January 2004 INDEX Updated 12th April 2004 Abramson, Seth / Of Ghosts and Jokers, Daydreamers Adams, Kelly / The Heaviest Weight Alexander, Raewyn / the clothing of castaways, I lived wrapped around a rock, time lapse photography Allan, Rob / Three Poems Allan, Rob / Three Poems Allison John / Poetics of the House, Heat Allison, John / In the Second Circle, Altar Allison, John / JUST PICTURE IT, THE FAMILIAR Allison, John / THREE POEMS Allison, John / TWO POEMS Allison, John / Walking, The Old Photograph Allison, John / Poetics of the House, Heat Allison, John / Poetics of the House, Heat Allison, John / TWO POEMS Allison, John / Journeys, Boat People Allison, John / Stone Angel, Cornered, Wings. Allison, John / POEM Amen John / Euthanasia Amen, John / Euthanasia Armand, Louis / Museum Piece Ascroft, Nick / The Anatomy of Economics, A Cock of the Head.

85. Inkblots: Janet Buck janet buck lives in the Pacific Northwest and teaches compositionand literature at the university level. In 1998 and 1999, she http://www.inkblotsmag.com/biographies/buckj.php

Janet Buck lives in the Pacific Northwest and teaches composition and literature at the university level. In 1998 and 1999, she has received numerous creative writing awards and been a featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Poetry Today Online, Vortex, Conspire, Poetry Cafe, Dead Letters, the storyteller, Poetry Heaven, Athens City Times, Poetik License, 3:00 AM e-zine, Poetry Superhighway, and Carved in Sand. Her poetry, poetics, and humor have appeared in and hundreds of journals world-wide. Strawberry Nipples, which focuses primarily on the role of writing in coping with a disability. Barbara Benepe, editor and publisher of and The Green Tricycle, comments on the poet’s work in a recent review: "Buck's strength is her perseverance and focused analysis of human sufferingfrom the inside looking out. Everyone faces a demon or two in the course of a lifebut not everyone has the skill to write about it in such an evocative way. Buck draws the reader into her very soul and we experience her suffering as if it were our own. Janet Buck's outstanding talent succeeds where others stumble. She runs headlong into her personal cauldron, screaming LIFE! and we're there, with herevery step of the way." Fiction and Poetry: Poetry The Crumbless Breadline Typhoid Fever Differences Adano's Bell in Syllables 8-Tracks of a Sinking Ship Online Magazines Potpourri The Ethical Spectacle Carved in Sand A Room without Walls ... The Dragonfly Review Inkblots Magazine is a production of The Dreamsbay Company

86. Mens Sana / Mountain Fever: Poetry By Janet I. Buck - Art Changes / In Motion Ma Mens Sana / Mountain Fever. Poetry by janet I. buck. Medford, Oregon. janetbuck teaches writing and literature at the college level. http://www.inmotionmagazine.com/jb.html

Mens Sana / Mountain Fever Poetry by Janet I. Buck Medford, Oregon Mens Sana Mountain Fever Janet Buck teaches writing and literature at the college level. She has published poetry in a wide variety of e-zines, journals, and anthologies around the world and received numerous creative writing awards. "Introspection's porcupine,"she says, "is an odd creature that comes in everyshape and size. The tangled roots of mine are whetted by the rains of being born disabled. I have spent most of my life using stoic pride to squeeze what toes I had and didn't have into the brutal shoe of normalcy. Poetry, for me, is a tuba in a long parade that chases sorrow and pain to its dissolution." Mens Sana The petty skies of normalcy. The Great, great wall of all the times I swallowed customs of the world and pushed my thighs like cattle herded to a barn. The temple one I didn't choose. Where coffee mugs that have a chip will lose their place in cupboards of a passing day. And methodology is weak like pressure sores that never heal. The portal veins

87. Conspire- Poetry- Janet Buck janet buck. Dirty Dancing My nose is really half a leg. Standing out likestranded cars beside deserted roads. The Wizard of Odd. I wanna go home. http://conspire.org/archive/p020104.html

Janet Buck Dirty Dancing My nose is really half a leg. Standing out like stranded cars beside deserted roads. The Wizard of Odd. I wanna go home. To more than merely driftwood bones like worry sticks in engines of an aching soul. A scarecrow leaning in the wind. Your eyes that rain with pity’s fire. Third class tickets to romance. Without the grace and gossamers that flutter in the evening shade. Waxen smiles and passes to the masquerade and theaters of pain. Dirty Dancing slapped my face and hit me hard, right between the satin thighs that never were. With jealousy like forest fires that run across a bed of hay. I might have skated on a pond. I might have danced on marble dreams. And here I sit in prairie grass, just waiting for the flame. Charades This empty page is feeling like a broken box or mattress springs that make an awful noise at night. The secrecy is leprosy. Worms in lieu of butterflies. Missing yet another wing like siding from the barn of dreams. Another round of knives and pain. Helicopters stirring up the quiet air. Double-parked for tragedy and looking for a china cup to hold the streams of tears. D.C. al and not so Fine. Planks of fear that bounce me all around the room. A drowning beetle on its back. Beds of coals to look around and see the veins of scars. Musty curtains always drawn. Pillows on the prison bed like shepherds for a flock of sheep. And when I wake from surgery I’ll roll my stump across the page like soggy butts of cigarettes. Spin a smile in spiderwebs and play another of round of life. It’s really just Charades.

88. Three Candles: Janet Buck janet buck Two Poems War s Dominos Crushed Paperbacks War s Dominos. Poet sBiography janet buck, Ph.D. is the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.threecandles.org/archive/jbuck.html

Janet Buck: Two Poems War's Dominos It's been three months since undoing every fairy tale we've ever read of innocence. Puff the magic dragon cranes still dig in 24-hour shifts. One man's head on blaming platters feeds the growl of revenge, draws the pus of tragedy like flies to feces in a barn. The war Jacuzzi's blood is warm. Sadness needs a place to stew. Its dominos go slat to slat. Bombs have babies. Bigger bugs eat smaller bugs. a spreading rash of guts and rain. The CIA is rifling through is pubic hair around a rape. Death begets another death like gnat wings multiply and eat. Snowfall in its chastity seems dandruff from a lock-less scalp. Suffer's tongue is like a match that lights all candles in a church. Grief makes balls and aims the ice. Justice is a bent spoon. Its metal tired. But I am still hungry and hurt, rubbing the white coals of my eyes embedded in the unconscionable. We look to Christmas for renewal, hug a little tighter now even if our tendons tear. I cannot think of Santa's hat down chimney slots without the plague of New York ash.

89. Three Candles: Janet Buck janet buck Parting Drapes Parting Drapes. Poet s Biography janet buck is asixtime Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.threecandles.org/archive/jbuck2.html

Janet Buck Parting Drapes Parting Drapes knowing the book would close, music would stop, a pulse would quit, and you would be left in a room surrounded by empty chairs? your hands were always drawing them. Back and forth, the steel screeched as if it were an oil rig plumbing a desert for hope. You messed with even valances, tugging at puffs as if this skirt could ever hang over the going bone. Inviting in the hiding sun, blue batiks of fading skies becomes commitment's old career. You sign forever in the sand; someone kicks it in your eyes. All palms are idle in the end, tortilla husks that speak of curdled, passing meals. Little scraps of ivory moons bequeathed to soil, then covered up. Rage drops anchors in the mud and dying sails the fitful sea, testing every rope we own. You kept his college photograph touched the glass as if to print it with a wish. Fed him ice chips, spoons of yogurt, watched the drips deliver fluid to the sand, where every clock had lost its dial. Adoring him was not a chore even when his face was ash.

90. Janet I. Buck - Lifting The Skirt Poem. THE LIFTED SKIRT. by. janet I. buck. . janet buck is a threetimePushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.literarypotpourri.com/05_Apr/po_apr_01.html

home Poem THE LIFTED SKIRT by Janet I. Buck After your death, I stare at your bed robot in a stony igloo wanting to trade the chill for warmth. I smell your hair in pillow conch, in feathers of abandonment that take a fragile world by storm. I look for oysters in a clam, for pearls on a broken chain. Mourning's ugly odyssey keeps turning up the slaughtered dream. Beneath the skirt sit tumbleweeds dented slippers, empty boxes, spoons and forks and tea cups with a lipstick mark that used to sue a cloudy day with stripes of sugared grenadine. A messy maze of cords and wires all attached to nothing much but sockets of recurring grief. A cactus counting water drops. I finger webs for widows which I know will bite or drive me to a whiskey glass. Run across the lint of lonely decked in golden lion fleece. A stethoscope through which I hear my clawing heart, fossils of a rose's womb that never made it to a vase. The waffled mattress bears your prints, urine-stained with facts of time no catheter of need could change.

91. Janet Buck janet buck. MIDDLE GROUND. I see your footprints inching. toward thegutted grave. Abide a mattress. growing sour like dated milk. Cartons http://www.atomicpetals.com/archives/jb03171.htm

var TlxPgNm='jb03171'; Janet Buck 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. The Cup of Death Elihu Vedder Home Next Contents

92. Janet Buck janet buck. Last Oranges. This day s sun could well be. the last orangein a torn bag. What will I do with its pulp? My eyes forked http://www.atomicpetals.com/archives/jbuck1.htm

var TlxPgNm='jbuck1'; Janet Buck Last Oranges This day's sun could well be the last orange in a torn bag. What will I do with its pulp? My eyes forked open, staring at the pitch of fleeting night. Owlish onions in a forest hooting at the nebulous. Determined to find the dust a pan. My broom is wet from the sugar of summer rain and love's elusive miracle I've seen and held and stashed in pockets when you leave. I roll into the warm spot of wrinkled sheets. A tiny crater in the moon bequeathed to me by scents of lingered aftershave. I dare not ask how long we'll last, arguing against our deaths. To wallow there is quicksand for a pensive dawn. Some moment in the giant burn, I'll taste our cookies crumbling. Coronach and elegy of what a daisy just might say, if it were to stop the wilt, count the flow of petals stripped, their ivory bellies lying in a bed of ice, inert as snapshots of the sea. Onion Girl by Gary Martin Next Top Contents Home

93. TPQ OnLine - Janet Buck TPQ OnLine janet buck. janet sites Before the RoseArt Villa; Hot Linksjanet I. buck; Author s Den; Active Amp.orgFeatures janet I. buck; http://trfn.clpgh.org/tpq/JBuck.html

TPQ OnLine Janet Buck Janet Buck's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in CrossConnect Kimera 2River View Niederngasse Stirring Magazine The Adirondack Review Steel Point Quarterly Poetry Magazine.com Southern Ocean Review The Pittsburgh Quarterly The Pedestal Magazine , and a variety of other print and internet publications. She is a two-time Pushcart Nominee, a recent recipient of The H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence, and one of six winning poets in the Kota Press Anthology Contest. In December 1999, Newton's Baby Press released her first print collection of poetry entitled Calamity's Quilt . Three others have followed in its wake: Reefs We Live Bookmarks in a Hurricane , and Before the Rose Janet was 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 the year 2001, Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in The Montserrat Review The Amercian Muse The Carriage House Review Runes: A Review of Poetry Rockhurst Review , and dozens of journals world-wide.

94. TPQ OnLine - Janet Buck Quartet TPQ OnLine poetry by janet buck. Pay It Forward Copyright © 2003 by janet I.buck. One of our favorite poets, janet buck is a sixtime Pushcart Nominee. http://trfn.clpgh.org/tpq/buck4.html

TPQ OnLine poetry by Janet Buck Pay It Forward A lonely man presses his shirts in flawless strokes to avoid the lumps on his face. He lives in nightmares for romance. A drunken dad, a poignant match, a common can of gasoline become the cloying visitor who will not leave. If someone tries to palm the source, he freezes and bolts the soul a pony shaking in the forest chill. He's just a jewel that needs the light to render it muscle and bone. I felt the shivers in his spine. It was only a Hollywood flick, but I fathomed his coriaceous scars the way those maps become a page of parasites that will not let a day alone the way a mirror becomes a slate of jagged glass and eyes return no favors but their glistened rain and pity's bile in buckets first, then rivers no one wants to ride. I saw my many blemishes longing for the awkward touch. I wanted Helen Hunt to kiss the unkissable land. Pay It Forward , starring Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt, 2000 This Boot of Death It was the first morning of school as sadness comes and stays. A hospice nurse in lily white could not change the mud.

95. Amputee Of The Month - Janet Buck Accept, Adapt, and Excel A Portrait of janet I. buck. janet buck.by Mark Taylor The introduction is finished and a shy, diminutive http://www.activeamp.org/winners/buck_index.htm

Amputee Sports Directory Winners Children's Resources ... Home Accept, Adapt, and Excel: A Portrait of Janet I. Buck Janet Buck by Mark Taylor The introduction is finished and a shy, diminutive poet with a permanent smile walks to the podium. Within minutes, her audience is dabbing at eyes and laughing at her self-effacing humor. Watching her go to the front of the auditorium, they have little inkling that she is a leg amputee; her limp hardly noticeable. What they know is that she's a two time Pushcart Poetry Prize nominee, a winner of the H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence, and has been featured in hundreds of print and internet journals world wide. Some might even know that in 2000, her poem "Acrylic Thighs" was on display at the United Nations Exhibit Hall in New York City, translated into 5 languages, paired with original artwork, and is now on tour with the "One-Heart, One-World" Exhibit. Most have little clue that they are about to hear one of the giants of the poetry world pour her soul out before them. They will hear her gun blasts of honesty regarding disability, the roles of men and women, and alcoholism. About illness, family strife, and grief.

96. Stained Glass Janet I. Buck Stained Glass janet I. buck. A scotch bottle rolled under a pew,. smacked the polishedwood . an untoward thud, then slivered glass. Perhaps some choir of blame. http://www.canwehaveourballback.com/16buck.htm

Stained Glass Janet I. Buck A scotch bottle rolled under a pew, smacked the polished wood an untoward thud, then slivered glass. Perhaps some choir of blame without a definite voice. They pinned it on a lounging vagrant decked in gritty wool. Dirt on his skin painted him guilty and no one thought to sprinkle some baptismal stream. Where were the rivers mirrored in creeds and shimmering art? Mournful lace in higher corners out of reach. Cathedrals swept by hands and brooms tossing little back at grief. One finger point, one quick arrest. A child asks and peers into his mother's eyes: "He's in handcuffs; is he Christ?" Unopened bibles haunt this place. Her clothes remind her roving palms of wasted silk and gabardine of edgy lies. His stocking cap, a hat that said he was friends with bitter cold, with symphonies of hungry organs rumbling. He was a beggar caught in the deed of longing for more than churches built. The rest of us silent, treacherous, and prim marching, marching to no drum.

97. Burning Word | A Literary Publication And Forum Syndicate. XML. A Rose to Press. by janet buck, published April 21, 2004 2004. Mustard Seeds. by janet buck, published January 10, 2004 - 2207. http://www.burningword.com/article/8

@import url(misc/drupal.css); @import "themes/xtemplate/xtemplate.css"; Browse By Author Guest Authors J Buck F Dillon A Early M Giberson W Hunt B Miller J Sweet J Swenson C Wiersema P Williams B Wunder By Genre poetry fiction non-fiction discussion forum reciprocal links Information about submissions writing forum announcements ... home Log in Username: Password: Create new account Request new password Forum topics Active forum topics: I'm back... The Harlot of Gennesaret Downtown Stories ANASTASIYA ... THE 45 APOCRYPHA New forum topics: I'm back... Downtown Stories ANASTASIYA THE 45 APOCRYPHA ... more Top Ten Links Literary Brothel 3 AM MAGAZINE The Fiction Warehouse Small Spiral Notebook ... Stirring Online There are currently 2 users and 7 guests online. Syndicate A Rose to Press by Janet Buck , published April 21, 2004 - 20:04. janet buck poetry Illness smells out the trite like beagles with noses near to the ground like a mother who knows her daughter's been smoking in the bathroom downstairs a dozen walls away from her. Suddenly this narrowing of breakdown lanes, of space to roam, sidewalks cracking from the ice.

98. Janet Buck janet buck teaches writing and literature at Southern Oregon University in Ashland,Oregon, and has published in journals, magazines and anthologies across the http://www.2river.org/2RView/2_2/bio/buckbio.html

The 2River View 2_2 (Winter 1998) BIO JANET BUCK teaches writing and literature at Southern Oregon University in Ashland, Oregon, and has published in journals, magazines and anthologies across the United States. The Crust The Trinity

99. Contributors - Outsider Ink janet buck. Read her poetry on Outsider Ink Visit janet buck s Gallery atwww.janetbuck.com Email janet buck at Jbuck22874@aol.com. Kevin Dresser. http://outsiderink.com/00/fall/bios.html

John Birkbeck John was a late bloomer and did not publish any poetry until he was in his mid-forties. Since then he has had poems published in many small-press magazine worldwide, as well as four books of poetry. For over thirty years he worked as a scientific illustrator for James Van Allen, the discoverer of the radiation belts that were named for him. Family legend has it that he is descended from Lord Byron, but other that writing poems, they have very few things in common. Read his poetry on Outsider Ink Visit his Website for recent publications Email John Birkbeck at: jbirkbeck@hotmail.com Janet Buck Janet Buck's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in , and hundreds of journals worldwide. Two of Buck's 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. She has three poetry collections currently on the market: Calamity's Quilt, Reefs We Live

100. V L Q janet buck s poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in A Writer’s Choice,The Melic Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Kimera, The Rose Thorn, 2River http://celaine.com/content/index.php?option=content&task=view&id=3

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