Itasca Illinois Poetry & Willow Tree Dreams

Poets2 Published Poets Continued

Clinton Van Inman

Just a handful of Zen is all you left
As we watched you change
Into those borrowed robes
And chant your mantras to
Run away people in parking lots.

Such a real cool daddio only children
Failed to recognize your once prophet
Of bongo players, jazz players of the world.
Did you really think we
Would shave our heads?
Clever you, you fooled them all but not me.
My face formless like the Immortals,
I followed your nameless streets
That led all the way to India and beyond.
I still howl in your painted posies.
I now spit in your holy water
And write your name now only in

Bio: Clinton Van Inman, is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida. He graduated from San Diego State University, born in Walton on Thames, England. He hopes in the near future to publish a book called “One Last Beat” as he is one the of the last few Beats standing. Clinton has been published in many publications .

Editorial Comments: Since I’m 64 I remember this scenario playing out on the streets of Canada while
I was in exile during the Vietnam War, during the beat, hippie generation of 60’s social, cultural changes. A reflection our age is the use of the word “daddio” seldom hear in today’s lingo. Michael Lee Johnson.

A Documentary
By Carol Smallwood

said the most powerful force
on earth is the splitting of land—
the continents once being one

Sahara sand, the roundest,
smoothest on earth
is the wind’s plaything

That the last native
plants in the U. S. are often
by railroad tracks

Bio: Carol Smallwood, a Pushcart-nominee, co-edited (Molly Peacock, foreword) Women on Poetry: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing by Successful Women Poets (McFarland, 2012).

By Debbie Hilbish

Listening to the hum of the electric razor.
The scent of Old Spice.
Radio broadcasting the news and weather,
followed by toast and jam.
Watching the birds at the feeders by the window,
a morning liturgy.
Rubbing the top of his bald head
and donning a stocking cap
with his gnarled, split and discolored
working man’s fingers,
hit one too many times with a hammer.
Rolled cigarettes produced by those same adept hands.
Prince Albert tobacco
in the breast pocket of his cotton khaki long sleeved shirt.
A low soft tuneless hum meant only for him as he
finds his solitude wrapped around
the smell of wood littering his workshop.
The old panel truck cued to protest
the grinding of gears on any given road trip.
Canned peaches and cookies for desert
at the end of a day soon to be filled
with the aroma of cherry pipe tobacco,
wafting up to the ceiling in hazy curlicue swirls.
A kiss, a squeeze, a pat on the head followed by
" You are Grandpa's favorite girl."
Knowing I was the only girl not making my heart swell any less.

Bio: Debbie Hilbish has enjoyed writing poetry since she was a young adult and has continued writing throughout her life. She views every single moment as a possible poem waiting to be written. Debbie is a self-taught artist and a poet, viewing life from the experiences of living life.


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