Rabbi James B. Rosenberg -- husband, father, grandfather -- has been writing poetry on a regular basis for more than twenty years. Some of his poems and translations of Hebrew poetry have appeared in national periodicals.
In the fall of 2006, Jim completed a ten-year term as Poetry Editor of the CCAR Journal of Reform Judaism.
His collection of 120 poems, Until the Blue Kingdom Comes, was published in January 2011 by Xlibris. Five poems from this edition are offered in origami format.
Origami Micro-Chapbook |
Selected Poem(s) |
Cover Art by Elise Luce Kraemer
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{mooblock=My Feckless Chickadee}
I met my feckless chickadee
At an oyster bar in Tennessee.
We both took lemon in our tea:
What a marvel of serendipity.
Though I loved her well, I could surely see
In her nitwit eyes that she hated me. •
James B. Rosenberg © 2010
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{mooblock=You!}
...and a man wrestled with him
until the break of dawn. Genesis 32.25
You elude me like a name heard once.
You taunt me with demands I cannot meet And cannot fail to meet. Shall I strip off my anger like a bathing suit coarse with sand? Shall I swallow my lust like a vitamin? You call me to a yesterday I cannot face And to a tomorrow far deeper than the river I have crossed. Your sweaty arms drip insolence. Your bony legs squeeze me to truth.
You! You! You!
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James B. Rosenberg © 2009
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{mooblock=Opening Lines}
riding and riding and driving and driving
bicycle bicycle car car I come to a crossroads rain-slicked and cool
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James B. Rosenberg © 2009
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{mooblock=Wednesday:} No sun at High Noon nor Moon over Miami: The Almighty says “Oops!”, Puts two light in the sky, One to rule in the night, One to paint the day bright. • James B. Rosenberg © 2009 {/mooblock} |
A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past twenty-five years in Indonesia.
A collection of his adaptations of classic Indonesian folk tales won the Cervena Barva Press fiction chapbook contest. No Bones to Carry, the latest volume of Penha’s poetry, is available from New Sins Press
He edits New Verse News, a website for current-events poetry.
James Penha's poem, "Lesson" can be found under the Appreciation category in the 2016 Origami Poems anthology The Best of Kindness available on Amazon.
► Jack's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.
Origami Microchap |
Poem(s) |
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Click title to download microchap Audio Version • _charlie_ the little and, truly,
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Woody Allen, Alive and Well I trailed Woody Allen up Madison Avenue once.
Block after block, I slowed to his footsteps. He talked with a woman oh twice his height. Not Keaton, nor Mia of course. They parted the waves. In the wake, I watched millions tilt their eyes and try to watch with casualness where they went. Not one broke stride; we yielded Woody his vector. But at the plane of passage all turned for the denouement with their heads upon their shoulders and quickly back to each other to ask, rhetorically, “Do you know who that was?” or to say who that was. The sure only smiled. Others looked back. This city was Woody’s. I watched Woody and the woman
turn a block onto Fifth and into an apartment house. It has taken me years to intrude with this, but
my sadness makes me want to write that Woody lived with reverence. DIGGING LORCA
Do soggy bones matter more than Bernarda’s broken cane or New York tenements or a perfect pair of olives in hand? For if we hold, Federico, your delicate fingers, trace the lines of your lips with our fingers, and hear your inspiration even now, we have no need for the palpable to imagine you. Exhumation reminds me more of the next innocent to die wordlessly in a ditch. |
Rudy Emerging from the parking garage
EULOGY AT OPRYLAND Merle Watson, he done it right: I al’ays thought But Merle was a realer country boy •
James Penha © 2012
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Cover is a mural detail
from the Pod Hotel NYC (formerly Pickwick Arms) •
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Opening Lines Nina jumped
from a fifth-floor bath of the Pickwick Arms Hotel. I’m swaddled
in Nina’s unsteady 8 millimeter arms. Later a splicing
machine made me the family archivist and my father’s
black and white movies were read all over. Nina’s sister Bertha--“Ah,
Nina and her grandson” at the epic premiere. I’ve no Grandma
Nina in my memory but Nina on film. • James Penha © 2011
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Cover Photo by James Penha
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Riverwalk We slip on jungle river stones back, rock
by rock, year by year, till we are immersed in yesterdays swimming mightily against the flow of time. We grasp at corners of the past in the crooks of ancient boulders and crawl through eras to epochs and edens where we are the first humans rubbing our eyes to find ourselves born to blue butterflies, green mansions, and infinity falls in cascading canyons pristine, primeval, untouched until this singular moment when we are aboriginal, indigenous. • James Penha © 2009
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Cover Photo by James Penha • MOUNTAIN STEPS In absolute silence |
A Bali Dancer, A New World My mask
faces dead moons
breathing breasts sun bursts eruptions of language when you stare silently into the corner
terrified of your seeing my geometry I turn away
ART HISTORY
IN NORTHERN SUMATRA The Kotanopan jungle mountains are cut in the foreground by the rapid river and so shimmer at sunset, like a pointillistic painting until every tree shakes and the sky itself explodes into a guernica of bats: dark night before night when the landscape fractalizes into pollack drips and daubs de kooning and bits of landscape in my cubist eyes.
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THE SALT EATERS the family
ODE ON WOOD Because I sit here at home •
James Penha © 2010
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Nancy E. Brown, retired from 25 years in Alaska libraries, has been a reporter for The Nome Nugget, book reviewer for the Kenai Peninsula Clarion, freelance writer, storyteller, writer of haiku, and a lifelong fan of Dylan Thomas.
Her biggest fan, husband Ken, has kept a steady hand on the rudder for 42 years of marriage through rough waters and calm. They have a daughter Roda Motta, son-in-law Rick Motta, and three witty, musical granddaughters who also love to read and write poetry.
(Above Image: Nancy Brown as portrayed by her granddaughter, Sophia)
► Nancy's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.
Origami Microchap |
Poems |
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Click title to download PDF microchap
“Tomato Can:”
Slang term used to describe an inferior boxer that an up and coming fighter
takes on
to burnish his reputation
& record.
Also, a boxer who ‘takes a dive’ or
loses a fight on purpose •
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Tomato Can Blues No bets on the plodding bruiser
who is not Ali’s Wepner, The Bayonne Bleeder from Jersey. Not Tyson’s Douglas in Tokyo. He’s a bad boxer picked to make this champ look good, a real tomato can kind of guy— until his southpaw found the champ’s jaw and the wrong ‘can’ hit the mat. Victory
Clenched jaw slackens Angle the camera blood red, vein blue, |
The crowd cheers. Illegal groin kick.
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Violence Becomes You “Temper, temper,” his father cautioned. Still, the wrong tone, wrong look... His fierce face thrust at the stranger, He beat bloody the man “Stop.” • |
Click title to download microchap Cover photo by Ken Brown
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OBSERVING MANNERS I would never anthropomorphize, but
BATHING The male hops |
IDENTITY From jellybean-sized eggs,
CAGED The male finch worries |
AUSSIE FINCHES This tiny, indigenous species
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Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover photo by Rocco Rainone
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On the shores of Mishnock Lake
The heron lifts its head to listen. •
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Neighborhood Life After a restless night, I walk into dawn.
Mute swans float beneath the lake mist. The creek burbles under the road next to the small cottage where Miss Lovelace— her sister dead in a crash— raised her orphaned niece and nephews after rejecting her brothers’ solution, “We can each raise one.” Summer
The neighbor builds this year’s racing car. His sons play basketball in the street after they drop their bikes in the yard. Later, they walk to the lake, beach towels over their shoulders, bare feet slapping the road. |
The Lake In the beginning was water,
Mishnock Barn Fires, a hurricane and post-war building codes |
Winter One, two...five boys push snow
• Nancy E. Brown © 2012 |
Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover Photo by Maureen Conley
Dedicated to the memory of Milli Ekak • |
Tenakee Springs, Chichagof Island Norwegian men—eyes glacial blue,
Blond hair burned white by sun, Shoulders built to ship strength— Sluiced and dredged Nome’s gold Then wintered at these hot springs. Nearby in wilderness coves stand raven, Orca, eagle totems. In the strait a pod Of orcas stampede seals to shore. Rocks tumble in the crimson tide. Tangle Lakes, Denali Highway
Traveling the road rough as miners’ hands, We turn off the engine to watch One, two snowy owls ride the air Like white smoke over the tundra. A young porcupine huddles under a willow. At the next rise, Tangle Lakes shine like New coins or maybe moons fallen from Jupiter In homage to this midnight sun. After a blueberry and grayling breakfast A snow smell blows into camp. Quickly we tie the canoe to the car top In a rush to outrun the blizzard. |
Gambell, St. Lawrence Island Duffles drop on the floor before
Aggie Creek, Seward Peninsula We read the shallow rivers —
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Goodpaster River, Delta Junction
• Nancy E. Brown © 2010 |
Click title to download microchap Cover by JanK • |
Home: Ohio, 1950 - I. Cold well-water gulped from a gourd.
A dose of brown sugar and turpentine - An old-time remedy To keep away worms. Cod liver oil from a cold metal spoon. Buttermilk cornbread baked In a cast-iron skillet. Sun-warmed tomatoes and peppers, White corn on the cob Rolled in butter. Pan fish fried on Fridays. .
II.
A worn quilt, feather pillows Wet grass between bare toes Papery wasp nests abandoned The tickle of a praying mantis’ legs another — A raw potato against a wart time remedy. - Old The pop of ripe gooseberries in the mouth Warmth under a hen’s wing The soft wrinkled feel of Grandma’s cheek. |
III.
IV. The screen door, |
V. • Nancy E. Brown © 2009 |
Noël Patoine was born and raised in Sutton, VT. She found formal education at Riverside Day School, St. Johnsbury Academy, Connecticut College, The Williams/Mystic Program and Bard College. Having survived and thrived her adult initiations she migrated to Providence by way of Mystic where she’s found her niche and friends who love her.
She is a poet by nature, wooing the world with words while wandering through its magic. Her poetic influences are everything from flower to friends: it began with Shel Silverstien’s brilliance and her Grammy Patoine who wrote her letters in rhyme. Poetry efficiently shares experiences Noël would otherwise need many lifetimes to explain.
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Bob uses his many experiences he has had as a police officer and of life in general as material for his poetry. It was in his Hispanic poetry class that Bob wrote an Ode to Steven Shaw, which helped him bring closure to the killing of a fellow officer, an investigation in which he was directly involved.
► Bob's books are available for printing. See below and click on the titles.
Title of Origami Book |
Poem Titles |
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Dedicated to my father, who passed on his love of learning, eternal seeking, and endless quest for understanding. Who spoke, wrote, and translated Chinese, and who, when I was acquiring Spanish shared with me a gem given to him by his teacher:
"When you acquire another language, you gain another soul."
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Based on Las Letras by Robert Muir
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Dedicated to E., who discovered the courage to find what she needed, and then some. May knowing that change is possible inspire others to discover their courage, and fledge themselves from their own nests of fear and shame, and begin to chose their own path. | |
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Glenda
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Waiting
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Forecast
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Haiku: #4
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Marjorie Gaunt has been published in Yankee Magazine, Crone's Nest, Newport Review and The Providence Journal.
Her Letter to Rowland (to her husband who died in WWII) was featured in a choral presentation: Songs of Love & War composed by Paul Morevec and presented in Carnegie Hall on March 4, 2008 by The Oratorio Society of New York.
We miss her voice (1920 - Mar 15, 2016).
► Marjorie's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.
Origami Micro-chapbook |
Selected Poem(s) |
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“Truly, I find myself struggling
with being in my 90's… strange because age never bothered me before. All in my head, of course.
I'm better now."
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Bits and Pieces I keep finding
bits of you lying around as today there you are I push the tape button in my car and smile to hear your special song then in the freezer find a half-eaten carton of raspberry ice-cream and leafing through a strange magazine it occurs you have crossed so many thresholds I can only grasp at bits and pieces as you pass • Marjorie Gaunt © 2010
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Finding Buttercups I wander where wind is bending
grasses in the meadow and I look for you your luminous cups of gold filled with sunlight my mother sought you for a small bouquet and taught me that holding your golden light beneath my chin reflected your glory she placed you in a blue bowl yellow and blue like the colors of the flag of her childhood homeland with its fields of gold stretching beneath the blue of the sky • Marjorie Gaunt © 2009
{/mooblock} |
Bill Sullivan is professor emeritus, Keene State College, NH, where he taught courses in American literature and American studies. He is a co-author of Modern American Poetry and Containing Multitudes: Poetry in the United States since 1950. He also co-produced, "Here Am I," a documentary film on the life of Jonathan Daniels, a slain civil rights worker.
He resides in Westerly, Rhode Island.
Bill's recent book, Loon Lore: Poetry and Prose, is available from Bauhan Publishing.
► Bill's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.
Origami Micro-chapbook |
Selected Poem(s) |
Cover: Dark Petals
by Lauri Burke
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Every Origami Micro-chapbook
may be printed, for free, from this website. •
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2. Holding on The roller coaster car inches up
the steep hill. Our eyes question blue skies. Hands linked, we anticipate the terrifying thrill. But as we reached the apex and viewed the wrenching drop, our stomachs groaned, our hearts shook. Then gravity and machinery shot us down. Took our breath away as we loosened our grip on the lap bar, then grasped each other, inseparable we thought until you and so many more were no more. Now I cling to what remains-- out of love and fear. Hold on tight until my knuckles turn white. •
Bill Sullivan © 2016
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Pick A Color The single-minded ones
demand that we choose:
the red rose or the white
rose, black or white skin,
blue or grey cloth, green
or orange flag.
We could join the fray,
watch the colors clash
hear the swords clang
and the rifles ring,
sniff the cannon’s smoke
feel between our fingers
the blood soaked soil.
Or we could sit and sink
into Rothko’s rectangles and bands
painted in colors no clan can claim,
in hues and shadings that whisper
our shared sensibilities: tragedy
and doom beauty and ecstasy.
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Bill Sullivan © 2011 |
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Oil Spill: RI, 1/19/96 When the oil barge and tug were grounded
off Moonlight Beach, the officials said there
was no leakage. But in Wakefield oil, carried
by the gale force winds, clung to storefront
windows, windshields and clothes. When they
claimed it was under control, the oil, churned
by wind and sea, had penetrated the salt ponds,
had sullied Block Island, Long Island Sound…
The grim biologist is on a beachhead strewn
with the dead and dying: lobsters, mollusks
star fish , fingerlings and flounder, grebes,
and mergansers. In her oily hands she cradles
a loon. If he could open his eyes their redness
would dazzle you. If he could sound out his
plight, the song would haunt you. If it were
yesterday, he would have dove deep for you,
but today you count and curse the cost of oil.
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mooblock=Haiku No. I. Young sparrow splashing.
Straw-yellow grass fast dying. Bird bath Buddha smiling. •
Bill Sullivan © 2009 |
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On The Seventh Evening On the seventh evening
at this roadside pond ringed with scarlet lupine and blazing goldenrod, we see the blue heron amidst the green- leafed white lilies. On the road above a car speeds northward. Its lights burning dimly in the dusk. The night rises; covers the heron, the pond; reveals another way home. • |