Grateful for all the support I (Ryan McNerney) have been shown by the artistic community.  I am constantly adding members and updating biographies on the members page.  I am glad that everyone wants to be involved in our movement.

Our Growing Community

Not only have we been adding dancers we have also taken new initiative and started to add designers, musicians, songwriters, poets, and much more.  I hope to work with and get to know everyone on a personal level.  I have a great feeling about this project and hope everyone is just as excited as I am.  Remember to feel free to contact me with any concerns or questions about anything.

info@FutureFunkAlliance.com

“Drowsy god,
slow the wheels of my thought
so that I listen only
to the snowfall hush of
thy circling.”

written by Denise Levertov (exerpt from Hymn to Eros)

Softly, through the window pane,
the sun touched his check
tenderly.
It had arisen awhile ago
and now the alarm bells of the new day
called for him,
as the sun called for the earth –
to stir.

Somehow earlier,
in the darkness he had lost his pillow
his head now rested against the mattress
the sheet ruffled,
the pillow like a giant beanbag
wedged against the headboard.

He turned.
His wife had not stirred.
Sheltered from the suns’ rays
for at least another 20 minutes.

He fluffed the pillow,
tilted his head
placed the feather down where a calm sleep
would have found it in the morning,
let it caress his neck.
Saturday granted him this indulgence.

It would be only 60 seconds until life
revoked the permission.
His mind, only the subconscious on watch,
granted the blessing of a night’s calm,
now noticed the sun.
Those worries
which he had carried to the pillow the night before
were still there – alert, refreshed
and ready to face another day.

Ray Brown

Giulietta Masina

“Money is everywhere but so is poetry. What we lack are the poets.”

- Federico Fellini

CHARLOTTETOWN, PEI — Hon. Carolyn Bertram, Minister of Communities, Cultural Affairs and Labour, has announced the appointment of poet, editor and novelist Hugh MacDonald of Brudenell as the new poet laureate for Prince Edward Island.

With nine books to his credit as author and editor, Hugh MacDonald is perhaps best known to Islanders through his Random Acts of Poetry which, for the past five years, have brought poetry to the streets and workplaces of P.E.I.  Hugh MacDonald retired after more than thirty years of service in the educational system of the province and, since 1999, has been a full-time
writer. His work has also been included in four anthologies of the best of Canadian poetry.
Mr. MacDonald has served on the executives of both the Prince Edward Island Council of the Arts and the P.E.I. Writers Guild.  Recognition for his work and leadership includes awards and prizes in the P.E.I. Literary Awards, a first prize from the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia, and first prize in the Atlantic Poetry competition.  In 2004, he was presented with the Award for Distinguished Contribution to the Literary Arts on Prince Edward Island.
Minister Bertram said she was very pleased that Hugh MacDonald agreed to serve as the province’s poet laureate. “Mr. MacDonald is an excellent choice for the position,” she said. “He has a dedication and energy and an enthusiasm for poetry which will certainly contribute to the mission of the Poet Laureate to bring poetry into the lives of Islanders.”
Mr. MacDonald said he was looking forward to his term as poet laureate. He indicated that he felt honoured and humbled by the recognition and that he looked forward to exploring new ways of increasing knowledge of the importance of poetry.  “I am delighted, in this poetry blessed province, to be chosen as the next Poet Laureate. I will do my best to add a new voice
to those of my extraordinary predecessors, Frank Ledwell, John Smith and David Helwig, and  to do honour to my beloved Prince Edward Island,” said Mr. MacDonald.
The post of Poet Laureate does not have fixed duties and previous holders of the post have used a variety of approaches to making poetry a more central part of the lives of Islanders.
Minister Bertram also paid tribute to David Helwig who has completed his term. “I want to thank David Helwig for his service throughout the past two years as the Prince Edward Island Poet Laureate. The creation of the Poetry PEI website under Mr. Helwig’s direction has provided access to both the creators and readers to P.E.I. poetry both past and present. I know he
will continue to contribute to the literary heritage of our province.”

BACKGROUND:
The Provincial Poet Laureate Program:
The Poet Laureate Program was established in Prince Edward Island in 2002.  Past Poet Laureates are John Smith (2002 – 2004), Frank Ledwell (2004 – 2007) and David Helwig (2008-2009).
Objectives of the P.E.I. Poet Laureate Program include the following:  to celebrate Prince Edward Island and its people, to raise the profile of Prince Edward Island poets and poetry in general, to promote a higher standard of literacy, and to provide for the expression of culture and heritage through the literary arts.
Selection of the Poet Laureate is based on criteria including the following:  active and recognized as a poet of stature who has published at least one volume of poetry within the last ten years with a reputable publishing house, or whose body of work over the years has brought honour to themselves and the province; and a full-time resident of Prince Edward Island and have been a resident of the province for at least the five years preceding the appointment. Poetry produced in either the English or French
language is considered in making the selection of poet laureate but age, gender and ethnic background are not considered.

Christine Klocek-Lim’s chapbook, How to photograph the heart, has just been released from The Lives You Touch Publications, and it’s a wonderful collection that stings and calms us at the same time. 

Klocek-Lim has been my friend for a few years, and her poem “Endearment” was featured in HRR’s June 2009 issue.  But she is so much more! 

She is a wonderful poet, photographer, and editor (her online poetry journal, Autumn Sky Poetry, is superb).  She’s also a great mother and wife, and I’m sure she “plays” many other roles as well.  She’s an inspiration!

You can find her book here: The Lives You Touch Publications.  You can also find links to it in HRR’s WONDER Issue.  Here’s one on our News Page. 

It would make a wonderful gift this holiday season, as it shares so much hope amid the raw reality that comes with loving, losing, and remembering.

The title poem,

How to photograph the heart

 ~Christine Klocek-Lim

Please check it out, and let us know what you think!

The very best to everyone, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS from Holly Rose Review!

I’m back from LA, and it’s dark out on this late Saturday afternoon that is almost evening.  Unlike the temperature in Los Angeles, in New York its dropped to the point that snow is falling and doing its early December dance with its friends, rain and sleet.

It’s at a moment like this that even the elements don’t know how to behave, like my furnace, that keeps going on and off, dancing right along with them.   And I’m torn as well.  Should I go out?  Should I stay in?  I had plans tonight, but I think about the slippery roads, my steep driveway and the slick ground.

And that, of course, makes me think about love.

Love is truly a gift, and one that the poets, songwriters, playwrights and writers have tried to capture in art form since the beginning of time.

One thing they definitely got right, is that we “fall” in love.

Like a person who slips on a patch of ice (or a “sleety” driveway if I decide to go out), when our feet go out from under us, as we are suspended in mid-air, and then as we are “falling,” we know without a doubt that we have no control over that moment.

That my friends is love.

We have no control over it.

We can’t say,  “In six months when I’ve built up my savings account, or finished re-tiling the bathroom floor, THEN I’m going to fall in love.”

Nope.  Love is out of our control, is mysterious by nature, it appears when it wants to, and impacts every moment of our daily lives.  We live with a boundless spirit when it envelops our hearts, and we live in the shadows of life when our hearts are empty and longing so desperately for it.

But why do the writers and poets have so much to say when it comes to love?

I think it’s because we’re human.   Our expectations, backgrounds, personalities, and frailties often keep us from accepting the gift of love from another person. And that’s feeds the creative minds who write about these things.  I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’m more comfortable with my daily limitations than I am with trusting and exploring the power of true love.  And those limitations have been the inspiration for more of my stories and songs than I would ever want to admit to.

So, rather than admit to anything, let me take a break from this most serious topic and look outside, where I see the weather’s changed again.

The snow has now “elbowed” out the rain and sleet, and the yards have disappeared under white cotton sheets.  If I go out now I’ll have to clean off the car.  Yet if I wait until tomorrow, cleaning the ice off the windshield could be like shaving a three-day growth of beard with an ice scraper.   Neither one seems like much fun, and I’m starting to see the drawbacks of venturing outside.

And one of the benefits of staying here in front of my words, is that I can get back to the topic of love.

You see, I know love when I feel it, and when I surrender to it.   I know it when I hold someone’s hand, and feel both hands relaxing into each other’s like old friends.   When I find someone’s true kiss and life around us disappears during a loving embrace.  I know love when I lie snuggled in bed, tucked into another person, and feel warm and safe, and surrender to that one special moment where the anxiety and stress of life disappears.

That is love.

But I also know that love isn’t easy.   I know what it’s like to hold a cold hand that expresses no emotion at all, to feel no love during a kiss, and to lie in bed with someone – and still feel alone.  I know as well as anyone how I can confuse love with lust, infatuation or security, things that are only pretending to be love, when I know in my heart that they aren’t.

Some people say I’m too cynical or negative when I write.

But what they don’t understand is that I’m always writing about love.

I write about how I suffer without it when it slowly slips away from my life.   I write about how clumsily I accept it, and then try so desperately to hang on to it.  And I write about it when it’s presented to me as a truly special gift.

You see, I’m always writing…

…about love.

Photo by VC Ferry

Every sentence is another sentence,
really another life.
Someone’s always one step ahead.
The streets glow from the snow plow’s blade
chipping up stone with a daylight flash.
From here, the same tree out back,
the same asphalt roof,
the same wounded clothespins
shifting on the line.
Sometimes the man hanged is a hero,
sometimes a traitor.
Perfect sight and perfect blindness
when it suits our needs.
One day you realize
that you cannot break out
of your own bones.
There is snow-mush in the gutters
and along the highway,
melting here, turning to rock there.
Something’s always a step ahead.
Every sentence is another life,
really another sentence.

Jack Grapes

Jack Grapes

from his book “Trees,Coffee and the

Eyes of Deer”

All Rights Reserved

© 1995

VC Ferry

© 2009

From her poem, A Christmas Carol:

In The bleak mid-winter
Frosty winds made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.

- Christina Rossetti

CAFFE’ GRECO
 423 Columbus Avenue
 Monday, December 7, 2009
  6:30 – 9:30 p.m.
 Jennifer Barone
 Tom Stolmar
 Gary Horsman
 Ellie Pepper

 CAFFE’ GRECO
 423 Columbus Avenue
 Monday, December 14, 2009
 6:30 – 9:30 p.m.
 Jose Gutieuuz
 Dan Rosenhagen

 CAFFE’ GRECO
 423 Columbus Avenue
 Monday, December 21, 2009
 6:30 – 9:30 p.m.
 Toby McGuire
 Anna Wolfe

 CAFFE’ GRECO
 423 Columbus Avenue
 Monday, December 28, 2009
 6:30 – 9:30 p.m.
 Richard Ivanhoe
 Ellie Pepper

COME ON OVER TO NORTH BEACH! WE LOVE YOU AND ALL YOUR FRIENDS!

Dear Educators, Librarians, Writers, and Poets,

Downtown Bloomington’s TheatresCool is excited to again present RE: VERSE, a night of poetry reading and performance. All ages are welcome to attend this open mic event, and anyone fourteen or older is encouraged to perform an original poem or dramatic reading. We’d like to keep this a monthly event, so please help it continue!

This month’s RE: VERSE will be on December 8^th from 7:00 to 8:30 p.m. It’s a free event, but $5 donations are greatly appreciated.

Know a poet who would love to take part? Forward this message to him or her! We are thankful for any help you can provide in facilitating the love of art. This rare venue is such a great opportunity for our artists, let’s not squander it!

Here’s a link to the location and its address:

http://www.theatrescool.com/
403 N. Main Street
Bloomington, IL

Questions? Feel free to get in touch and I’ll answer them.

Sincerely,
Scott William Foley

John Hegley was born in 1953 in Newington Green, and moved to Luton at an early age. After leaving school he worked as a bus conductor and social security clerk, until he went to Bradford University, eking out his grant by working as a nurse in a local mental hospital.

He has worked with two children’s theatre groups, ‘Interaction’ and ‘Soapbox’, and began his highly successful career at the notoriously tough comedy store in 1980. ‘His audience is huge,’ writes Peter Forbes, ‘because everyone who has ever heard him is captivated by his mastery of timing and gesture and his complete domination of any audience that comes his way.’

Find out more about John Hegley through the Scottish Poetry Library’s Poets A-Z.

“I love you” are powerful words, therefore I keep it to myself.  But if I keep it to myself for too long, I won’t be able to say it anymore.

These words are such good words ,  it makes me delighted all day long.

Because of these words, I’m hoping all day long.

Because of these words, my heart is throbbing all day long.

— You're Beautiful

Lee Hong Ki

Jeremy

Written by Rilke (translated by C. F. MacIntyre):

Whoever you are, go out into the evening,
leaving your room, of which you know each bit;
your house is the last before the infinite,
whoever you are.
Then with your eyes that wearily
scarce lift themselves from the worn-out door-stone
slowly you raise a shadowy black tree
and fix it on the sky: slender, alone.
And you have made the world (and it shall grow
and ripen as a word, unspoken, still).
When you have grasped its meaning with your will,
then tenderly your eyes will let it go.

Photo by Margie Louise Goodspeed

Divine spectacle of
dreams of
the fool is the
vast and expanding universe’s squalid offering to
the final line of transformations printed in
Union blue
without the gold adornments,
without the mud, without the obvious inanity of
the need to fight for what is self-
evident, among men anyway.
I’m good at stitching. I’ll keep it together.
All the pieces. Together. Bound. As if it were one.
Think I’ll stop. Keeping it together.
What a relief. To the sea anyway.
She picked me up and hung me up-
side down. In a dhoti. And a hand woven shawl.
My legs bare. Sinewy. Glistening with sweat.
But no blood. Not on the outside.
She tried to lead me into the forest yesterday.
A little ‘Red Riding Hood’ and I can hear her
choke at that one. Why say you want to play if
you don’t? Yeah I’ve been to Bisbee. It was in
the shop on the hill where I picked up
the Lapis Buddha. He was not even an inch tall.
There were rows of tables with
used books laid out. It was morning and I wasn’t in
a hurry. The shop had tall windows looking out
to the street. There were miniature copper…okay. I
have to stop here.
The phone rings and it’s bullshit. Then
a bug is on my foot. Fuck off. Piss on
your own spectacle lady, cause I ain’t in
those woods with you. Done. And
get thee gone. What’s with
the recurring look anyway? What’s
with cutting throats for threads of
Faustus’ coat tails? What’s with
the knife speared through the pages of
the book? Go flaccidly among
the wretched pinstripes of adopted boots.
Hold that chin just, up,
a bit, just
by the orange
float she tried to
be the girl in
the papier maché ham. I might
have been her too. I might have
been a lot of things. I’ll be the whisper in
the ear of the one not listening and then
I’ll pay 12 dollars to see it. But I won’t
get popcorn. So anyway, there is laughing.
Glad to entertain. Come see me again, every second
Thursday of every other month and twice on
Sundays.

Margie Louise Goodspeed
Los Angeles, 27 October

All Rights Reserved

© 2009