POETRY MOVIE: Big Lonely Doug, by Ekaterina Karassev

Voice Over by Steve Rizzo

Visual Design & Editor: Kimberly Villarruel

Produced by Matthew Toffolo


I walked down the path and touched Big Lonely Doug.
He poked me in my chest and whispered in my ear,
“Do you know why I am left here?
Do you know why people keep approaching,
Taking off their shoes, hugging me and crying?
Do they know what is coming?
Or maybe they know how hard to wake up
And to see a clearcut?

Or maybe they are aware that when we are killed
We release tons of carbon dioxide?
Or how much it hurts
Witnessing your friends fall
Or to see the broken limbs of your kids?
Maybe they know how it feels when you are used to haul your family out.
Or how much I wanted to be with my siblings on that truck?”

I had no answers for him, I just kept my hand on his trunk.

“Maybe they hear the birds’ cries of despair
About missing nests and squished eggs?
Maybe, after a day of an awful noise and cracking sound,
They know the smell of horror:
Who is coming down tomorrow?!
Maybe they know how eagles scream during damage surveying?
Maybe they are aware what bears feel when they come out of still standing forest?
Maybe they hear a complete silence on a battlefield,
Where there are no movements of leaves, no sobs and no birds’ chirps?
And, to cover the wound, nature makes a heavy fog to roll in.”

I finally opened my mouth,
“Doug, you are a survivor, strong and the oldest!
Douglas Fir, you are the second largest!
You are a storyteller and an oxygen generator,
A guardian of a new growth and remaining forest!”

I heard Doug’s heavy moan.
“It appears to me you don’t know.
Behind your back is Eden Grove,
Which is getting ready to be logged.
I don’t have a beating heart,
But, I can feel the heavy step
Of those who is marking the road for blasting,
Knowing exactly what is happening after.
In each of them I see a tiny light,
That is ready to burst open and shine really bright.
Same light I have seen in Dennis Cronin,
Who tied up on me a green ribbon.
I have a hope for them and for humanity as a whole.
I know one day you all will embrace a life of pure love,
Where nature and you will live in perfect harmony!”

I shed a tear, stepped away and headed to Eden Grove.


POETRY MOVIE: A Scene of Brutal Glory, by Howard W. Robertson

Poetry Football……

Narration by Steve Rizzo

Visual Design & Edited by Kimberly Villarruel

Produced by Matthew Toffolo


After football practice, Dave Malloy, assistant
coach, was sitting in the office of the coach, Jim
Shelby / I was there as well; I don’t remember why
/ without the slightest warning, zany Dave erupted,
bellowed, slammed the tabletop with both his hefty
hands, ejaculating loudly these impassioned words,
“I want to fuck!” / Malloy repeated this, and Shelby
shushed him, since a teenage boy was present, me /
soon after that, Malloy became the coach at New
Geneva High, our bitter rival, we of Fairfield High /
the summer just before my senior season, 1964, I
had an easy job delivering bouquets, arrangements,
wreaths, and other floral merchandise from Baxter’s
Blossoms, located in Fairfield but providing flowers
for all greater New Geneva / my delivery van pulled
up at New Geneva High one afternoon, and I began
unloading many floral products / suddenly Malloy
was there, just grinning at me crazily, eyes merrily
agleam / we talked a bit of this and that, not even
mentioning we’d meet next autumn on opposing
sides of gridiron combat / early in the New Geneva
game that fall, we punted on fourth down / I was the
long-snapper and could release downfield before the
other guys who had to block first / when the punt
returner caught the kick, I was already nearing him
at top speed / suddenly I caught some stream of
energy (let’s call it Ki) and flowed right through the
running back, depositing his body in a broken heap
at Coach Malloy’s large feet while I just trotted off
unscathed and nonchalant / my soft eyes sensed his
crazy stare and joyous grin directed at me all the
way across the field to what was now the line of
scrimmage / next day in the local paper he was
quoted, “Well, I knew when Douglas tore apart my
halfback early on that we were in for one hell of a
game!” / that was the scene of brutal glory, that
god-given moment, gleaming possibly forever /
Pindar said, “What’s man? A shadow’s dream.
God-given gleaming comes, and life is bright.

Poetry Reading: LOCKED TREASURE, by LannaEvolved

Read by Allison Kampf


In the box
I am sworn to secrecy

His gaze against the shadows of the bars
has grown so weary
it deflates in fades
Suppressing the entirety of his remorse

‘To him, there seem to be a thousand bars
and back behind those one thousand bars no world’.
The soft
The righteous
The other step
runs away with the breath of space
In a time undefined by reason
In the smallest of shifts and turns, circling
moves like a dance of strength around a core
in which an eccentric
stands upright
In time there always remains a question
The faith that transcends
The magic curtain slides
from side to side
soundlessly — He is there.

So many possibilities to be free from the beginning, and uproot the past of burden burgeoning like a flower’s ability to withstand change in unpredictable soil and yet still feel alive.

He expands through the tension
the calmness of limbs — and stems
in the heart which fate prescribes to be a mighty will stood parallel to them.

Love is unintentional decision making upon the choosing of a
Solidified destiny
A clairvoyant

Bat wings in my heart
Calm bleeding
Smiling full

This life is my teacher
Take me to a room
without an education please

Put down a book that moves the table and reads the script from my last piece

Not the other way around

Magical thinking describes our destiny, the rest is fate
I’m not here to school you

Death happens
And clutter builds into a false enamel
Eventual decay
If not maintained

Fleeing toxicity is a freedom beyond understanding

Outside the peripheral
grief spins me upside down

The last flower petal remains
With it’s scent forever reminding
Of our song
In solitude

When the streets are lit with lamp designs
And Arabian nights alive in the instrumentals
My senses

Living within our home without
The perfect combination

Of chivalry, compassion, and attention to the details
This is an emotionally available man

Sin is a perception
Redemption; clarity
Pure mist
The clearance of past partners
Leaves my space
To make rooms upon the doors newly turned
for an atmosphere of hope

The written letter reads as I write:

To my love, I love you with all my being.
For You are everything I asked for when
My mind left me
My consciousness awoke for you to be found by me now.
And that cannot be duplicated.
For I am Gratefully blessed. By you.
To Our eternity.
Cheers to our eternity.

I’m with you.


Narrated by Val Cole

Editor and Visual Design by Kimberly Villarruel

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

After centuries of living with nothing, but my love to you, friends,
I found myself surrounded by the luxury of feelings and I am safe
now, I am alive, I am breathing again, but where were you, my friends,
when I was broken? I am calm now, but where were you my friends
when the emptiness encircled me and I was afraid? Where are the friends
when I need them most? I was yearning for knowledge, but from this
day on, I don’t want to know a thing except for, will I be able or not
to love you again, friends. Maybe everything and maybe nothing that I
have given or maybe not given away will ever be really as mine, as my
own breath? Hello friends, I found you after centuries of living with nothing
but my expectations — our life is what our expectations are. I thank you all.

David Dephy
January 2, 2020

Read Poem: They Say, by Michael Murdoch

They say you make your own stress

And that it’s detrimental to your health

They say that success breeds success

And in life one must know one’s self

They say stars can’t shine without darkness

And money doesn’t necessarily mean wealth

But none of this means anything unless

You realise

my wine glass isn’t going to fill itself

Watch the APRIL 2019 Poetry Readings



IT’S TOO LATE, by John T. Leonard

BOOTS, by Stephen Void


INNA BFLAT, by Sharon M. Musgrave

LET THIS DAY, by Katarina Jovcevska

NIBBLES, by Sebastian Hales

Poem Short Story: The Discombobulated Humph  & His Christmas Glumph©, by Si Baker