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    As the seasons move from winter to spring, there is a distinct excitement in the air. Here in Canada, we celebrate the passage of winter through the festival known as the "Stanley Cup Playoffs". Even though I have boycotted the entire season so far, I thought I would read and review a book with the theme of hockey. "Finnie Walsh" is the first book by author Steve Galloway. As a Canadian, from Vancouver, what better theme to use then hockey. His book gathers together the themes of growing up, hockey, fantasy, magic, tragedy and life together in a very interesting book.
    Finnie Walsh is the only child of the man who owns the mills in the community, and the only employer. He befriends a boy named Paul Woodworth, who serves as the narrator. Paul's father works at the mill and is surprised, at first to see the two play road hockey. Soon after this, a tragic accident happens to Paul's father, one that changes the family forever. Through the accident, the friendship between Finnie and Paul grows stronger as the two share their lives and adventures. Through the years of grade school and high school, hockey becomes the most important part of their lives. Magic also enters the picture when Paul's sister is born with both yellow skin and clairvoyancy.
    As the boys grow into young men, they both pursue a career in hockey and both are drafted by an NHL team. For the first time in their lives, they play on different teams. Both are determined to make it to the show, and even, for a time, Finnie makes it, however an incident happens to Finnie which ends his playing career forever. He returns home, to take over the business. His life changes, none for the good.
    Paul gets a break and ends up in the Stanley Cup play-off, and reaches the ultimate triumph, but at this moment, another tragedy enters his life.
    As a first novel, its a good read. Staying true to the hockey theme, Steve divides the book into three 'periods', with an overtime as well. It's a book that reminds all of us, how much fun playing on the street can be, and the fact that sport does have magic, a magic that triumphs over circumstances.

Feeling you in my dreams
Wondering where you are
Hearing your voice call me
Hopeing you cant be far

I lie in sleepless nights
Looking up at the dark sky
Seeing the moon so bright
Feeling your soul by my side

I feel your stength with the blowing of the wind
Senseing your warm gaze thru the sun
Feeling you with me as i bath in a stream
Whispering in my ear this love has just begun

You are a part of my soul and heart
This i know and believe to be true
Our hearts will never part
Till then i will never stop searching for you

The Chocolate Bar Poem
(aka) love is just a feeling
written by Tehut-Nine (copyright 2001)

When I think about this thing called love
I feel like I'm above the sky's ceilings
But if love is just a feeling
Then what I'm feeling is real odd
For I thank God for the woman that I love
Because she fits me like a glove
Made for my soul
And when I hold her in my mind
She makes me chime
Like I'm a bell
Because she rings my hormones well
And every cell inside me wants her
I want to plant her in my heart
So she can grow upon my thoughts
Because I fought to have her feigning
But she said love was just a feeling
And sex is all that men believe in.

So I said,
"Is it a sin that I begin my mornings
With thinking of you
And dreaming of you
While feigning for you
And sticking myself to the grip of your glue"
..."
..."
For I would do what god did
And send her cupid
With two of my ribs
To show her I'm true
And multiply her by two
For she's like the blue of my skies
And the view of my eyes
She's more than I've seen
Ten times she's a queen
For I've seen her in dreams
Where she feigned for a sip
Of the words on My lips

So I flavored her lips
With a deep CHOCOLATE kiss
That made her lips flicker
From the nuts in my SNICKERS BARS
And I swore I saw stars
When she grabed on my MARS
I've got scars as proof
I tell you the truth
Just as BABY RUTH
And I bet she will say
It was like MILKY WAYS
For it went on for years
Like the the THREE MUSKETEERS
So we sat down on chairs
Where she MOUND on my lap
While I CRUNCH her KIT KAT
And when it got hot
She screamed and she cursed me
So I showed her some mercy
And held back my tongue
From licking her HERSEY
Until she coerced me with tricks
To batter her mix
With two chocolate TWIX

So I flipped her and tripped her
And dipped to her hips
To speak to her lips
But her lips were still running
From the rush of her cumming
And oh! She was stunning
She had my mind humming
To the drum in her chest, and I must confess
I wanted to win her and get right up in her
But she made me linge to BUTTER my FINGERS
And fight like a ninja
Using Kung Fu!

Then she looked in my view
And said,
"What would you do if I gave it to you?"
I said, "WHATEVER"
"How long would you do if I gave it to you"
I said, "FOREVER"
For to have her pleasure
Would be more than any treasure
In the Earth or the sea
Oh if I could spend one moment with you eternity
Well she got wet from the passion
So I wrapped her in towels
And entered her alphabets
With FIVE of my vowels
She scowled and she howled
Until all she could do was scream
A!E!I!O!U!

**From Tehut-Nine's new book (Mental Eye-roglyphics) available online
at WWW.SUNRASON.COM. Call 718-444-7464 for more info.

VISIT WWW.SUNRASON.COM for the latest on Tehut-Nine, upcoming events,
products and services. Call 718-444-7464 for more info. or email
TEHUTNINE@SUNRASON.COM

A soft voice
wakens the slumbering child,
as the night bleeds into dawn,
though holes in its feet and hands.

A large white stone
shines bright in the light
of a cold, solemn mourning,
reflects the shimmer of reawakened
life as if across a newly calmed sea.

Valerie Schwader
have your work published FREE!
http://www.cjacks.com/cjacks/
___________________________________________

What is Being?
Is it simply breathing
or does it transcend
biological planes
floating up into the universe
only to melt to nothing
when it comes in contact
with the sun?

The metronome drones,
annoyingly beats.
I can never keep up,
so I slow it down.
only to find that now
I go too fast!

Is there ever any way
to stop the rythmical
beat for a moment
or would that disturb
the very orbits of solar bodies,
causing them to stand still
until I can start them
on a path simultaneous
with the wrechedness
otherwise known as mere being.
Valerie Schwader
have your work published FREE!
http://www.cjacks.com/cjacks/
___________________________________________
Morality/Mortality

Above a mass of nameless faces
there rises a solemn woman.
Above the ugliness,
above the smog of ignorance,
light has a name: Morality.

Hidden beneath
her tranquil facade
lurks an alter ego,
one so dark,
so menacing and inescabable,
he can only go by the name Mortality.

Together they drift
through time,
battling each other
and the forces that try
to destroy them.

Theirs is a story
of an internal struggle.
Theirs is a story
of a strugle against
outside forces.

I guess this is good bye my friend,
The time has come,
That we must go,
We hd times of joy,
And times of pain,
But in the end,
You where a great friend.
But sometimes, things change,
And two friends must say good-bye,
Maybe one day,
In the future,
We will meet again.
And that friendship we had,
Will once more blossom.
But for now,
This is good-bye.
I will miss our chatter,
And our fun,
I just hope,
That you will,
Remeber me,
But that you will,
Also move on.
By: Susan

Real at a new level
They are windows into the soul
They are are packets behind our backs
They are bad where good should be
A change beyond change

We should be better
They know too much about us
We can see through walls
They worry about which are lies
We go out with truth
They are we before today
We are more than they

'm sending you two experimental poems in
a new kind of poetry called fractal poetry:
http://sites.netscape.net/rlbtftn/2artshort3.html
There are other articles by me about it at my
Netscape site:
http://sites.netscape.net/rlbtftn/cantortricoo.html
http://sites.netscape.net/rlbtftn/Cantor_SierSS.html
The form is an effort to bring the beauty that
nature uses in fractals to poetry using
extracted rhythms using a syllable form
of poetry like haiku. Actually my friend
Patricia Prime is much better at matching the form
than I am! So far only 5 poems have
been written in this new form. My two are below.
Respectfully, Roger L. Bagula

through bluegrass and seasonal
burners, yellow
blended with every stirring
in the cook’s
obsessive green pot.

The mop is thankful for the dust that gives it cause.
The foot is grateful for the step that gives it pause.
The bone is thankful for the joint that holds it,
the hand is grateful to the hand that molds it.

The star accepts the cloud that makes it blink
in a young boy’s eye.
The egg is begging to be broken
if the bird might fly.

Salt-blind and giddy on wild buds branching
by the sea-wall, you picked those blooms
that tunnel to the memory of a brighter land,
where in calligraphy unicorns prance and tilt,
their horns the image of departing wings.
You rock and rock in the blooming of those
roses. Your heartbeat’s nothing but a tide.

It’s rained all month, to fill the streams
and ditches, gutters, storm drains.
Brief sun glares through rain-
streaked glasses. Water stands in puddles
in the fields waiting to catch a creek,
to sheet across the roads.

Lost here without her mountains,
one old lady’s going to find them.
She’s knocked the mud from her shoes,
looking for the way to catch running water,
a salmon fighting back upstream. Any tracks
she leaves on asphalt wash away.

A soft white mouth breaks open and sings twice
the soul of opera speechless as the trees,
their winter limbs, an archer caught on ice,
and then the archer's wish released.

But hereabouts the deer gnaw clay and gneiss,
they're stunted from an alien disease.
The cottonwoods will never leaf outside,
where roses bleed on their own spines.

An evening's patience finally pulls a tide
of passions into song, a pale design.
We recognize this truth, this tragedy
because it's ours though known by other names.

The deer have leaped the ledges to a lee
of cloud-swept green, the graceful and the lame.

he checked the word barrel
low, but willing it was
so the spigot is turned
and the lathe
to turn the work
as all work is turned
to weave whatever the
moment allows
to push the rod and drive the heel
where ever the moment allows
to attest the moment as if
it matters
to challenge the moment
to challenge all
as if it matters
which it does
without parenthesis
without question
no leaping
place very carefully the moment
in your hands
those hands scarred and worn with action itself
those hands who held the child
those hands you raised too quickly
and then paused
to stroked the hair from a cheek
place very carefully the moment
in these hands
and tell me
nothing matters

Written 2/19/ 001 the day the memorial was dedicated to the victims of
that
bombing.

                                 There is a song about Oklahoma,
                                 But it was written long
                                 Before that tragic day,
                                 When a bomb blew half of that big
                                 Federal building away.

                                 And scarred the lives of those that
did
survive,
                                 But let’s remember all of those
                                 Who did not survive,
                                 The innocent little children
                                 That were busy at play,
                                 And the bomb that ended their playful
day.

                                 We have to stop this kind of thing
                                  And take a lot more care,
                                 So let us all remember that tragic day
of
                                              April 19, 1995,
                                 And set it aside as a national day of
PRAYER..

LeRoy Doran

2203 N Baltimore #19

Kirksville, MO 63501

(660) 665-7556

ldoran@cableone.net

     No love could be so deep
     or float so high
     as when we share a kiss

     And as the others
     gaze upon an elder’s face
     within your eyes
     I'll see the girl
     of fancy free days;
     running through the wheat fields,
     sparkle not even the shimmering
     water could capture

Don’t mean to be a barkin at ya this time o life
Sometimes didley squat gets to cuttin, like a David Bowie knife
Ah do agree ta havin a pack o words to punch out now
O troublin words, gettin ta me, need more rope somehow?

This ain’t the lone prairie, an I’m not Dale Evans
Cussin n a feudin, makes spirited mares come unleavened
If’n t’were a wide open range for this gal
The rusted old Bronco truck, sure’d buck away fast as hell

Saddle me up with old Jed,the Clydesdale on my back
Cause weight o world’s dad blamed heavier n that
I’m foamin at the bit, and kickin and flingin wild oats
There’ll be hell ta pay if I don’t get away
Cause good bye’s all she wrote .. in a little note.

    Well, this concludes another issue, albeit a very late one. By the way there is a correction from the last issue, credit for some of the photos was accidently removed. Credit for three of them should go to Lisa Chandler. Thank you Les for pointing this out.
    As always, credit for the works belongs to the various authors and is copyrighted by them. The rest of the issue is copyright 2001.
    Submissions are always accepted. Mail them to pabear_7@yahoo.com. I'm always looking for new work and new authors. The next issue will be following soon, this is what taking a holiday does. See you later, keep writing.