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We are Better Than Starbucks! If good coffee (or just the concept of coffee), great books, sharp wit, and great authors excite you, we are for you!

..from the mad mind of the poet

Featured Poem of the Month

Better than Starbucks, the Interview

This is a Preview Edition, not a Premiere. All the poems in this edition are mine. In the future we will feature a "Featured Poem of the Month and it will pay a grand sum of $15.00. There will be other poems, usually one or two that are also paid. These poor souls will recieve $5.00-$10.00 for the use of their poem here. We do not keep copyright on any work by anyone in this publication. The exception being work published by the publisher, including interviews.

...and now....

This month's interviewee is not yet known

Please contact us and suggest who you would like for us to interview.

God only knows what I am going to write here in future editions. I am an arrogant know it all and I do not mind sharing my

If you know a literary sort, a poet, an author, a teacher of literature, or just a

opinions. So we will just have to see. We might even occasionally invite guests to rant or even share truly intelligent and informative stuff here. Donate

truly all around interesting character, and you think it might be fun to get their I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your Art and Words by own text and edit me. I’m a great place to let your users know more about you. Anthony Watkins

thoughts down on "paper". Let us know, if you have contact info, all the better, but we have our ways....

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Who we are "We" are steadfastly me, Anthony "Uplandpoet" Watkins, and whomever else I can rope into being a bit of help. In fact, you you would like to edit or read and judge submissions, let me know. You might end up being an Associate Editor My late mother and our dear dead friend "Mrs. Dan" in front of our old Mercury sedan at Coon Cottage, West Helena, Arkansas, circa 1963. Neither of these wonderful ladies are on our staff, as both are deceased, but they put this little muddy footed boy on the path to a love of the written word.

Even in 1968, at our old home in Shorter, Alabama, the littlest one was the noisiest. And nearly 50 years later, I still am.

Why "Better than Starbucks"?

As we start out, this is a very much a "one man band", so a bit about the "band" At age 5, I fell in love with poetry, because I could make up my own rules. I have pretty much been living by the selfmade rules all my life. In 1995 I started a local print literary and arts paper called Scene, Arts of the Treasure Coast, with a little insert called Sleeping Bear Press. After 7 years of long tiring hours and great fun, I gave it up in 2002. Along the way, it morphed into Abundance, a Harvest of Life, Literature, & the Arts. In the past decade I started a group on Shelfari that soon filled up with a few thousand wonderful people. We are struggling to readjust to life on Goodreads, as they are now merging. We called that site Better than Starbucks. Speaking of Goodreads, I am a three-time winner of the Goodreads Newsletter Poet of the Month!

Contact us at: [email protected]

I also have a few other publishing credits, but as I usually post my poetry two or three places on line, I rarely submit them for consideration. One of my dear friends on Shelfari pointed me to a class on Coursera, Modern Poetry, from the University of Pennsylvania. It has changed my life and I highly recommend it to EVERYONE. It is led by Prof. Al Filreis, and his able band of Teaching Assistants! As of last year, I have been honored to join the as a Community Teaching Assistant. There is more about me, and I could go on for hours, but nobody but my mother would want to read it, and she passed away back in January. Love to Mom, and I hope you all come to love this “little paper.” Our goal is to offer a living website than combines the old salon feeling of our soon to be destroyed Shelfari group and the old literary journal that served three counties in Florida for 7 years. If you can think of a way you can help make us better, please let us know. I have never been the best at anything, but i have aways put myself foward as a willing servant to do what i think needs to be done, and to take help from any who care to and are able to offer it.



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The Smell of Chrome

The Currency of Bears

The smell of chrome is strongest near the rust and where the rubber bullets used to be, more nipples than weapons, though to some, both are the same. I run my nose close, not touching, the brown crusty rings in the gleam, and up the side, where the thin spray rises to a glorious tail fin. And smell is strong enough to carry me back fifty years.

There are no bears in the money. There are eagles and lions and tigers, and the queen. The Tigris and the Euphrates whose stripes change ever so slowly. The bear sits in the market place. In an alley café, reading the Financial Times while drinking coffee in the sunshine ever so slowly. The sun shines now on the queen. She glitters like she is, while the Tigris shines like gold and silver and the big cats stalk the thirsty antelope. And the antelope has no money but waits in the ante room, waiting for its anti-life to end. And the tranquilizer dart takes down the cat, and the dear little deer darts away, to live another day, to die another day, for there are no bears by the river. There are no bears in the money which the antelope does not have, or does not carry. My parents’ friend had a Dodge Dart, back when they were tiny and covered with wrinkled sheet metal. Back when I was tiny. The friend is long dead and I am covered with wrinkles. And the Dodge dart is back for a third time around. The bear finishes his croissant, and lumbers off, for a bear will never dart. And he cannot drive except prices down. Prices of pork bellies and timber and silver and gold. He bears no currency only money and there are no bears in the money.

Panhandler Path

Grass worn low from overpass to sewer pipe good living in Palm Beach County

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These are poems, images or whatever posted for your entertainment without compensation, but with permission to the creator. Please do not reuse without permission of the creator, and without noting "Published by Better than Starbucks"

"Free Poems"

Our first "real" poem (not one of mine) Celestial Ballet Evening sings, and we listen. The red blanket sun unfolds, as orange becomes indigo, and sleeping stars course to chorus, beckoning hearts to follow. Soft upon your lips are the tones of our earth song, a wind-embraced crescendo harmonizing heavens as we join their verses. Melody surrounds us, as caverns ascend harp-stringed moonbeams. Tiptoe now the star paths, hand-in-hand to dance, celestial ballet. -- Memory Trace

Needles and dealers and dying on dirty bathroom floors. sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen in the one unbroken chair where an innocent morning light travels through the grimy glass of an un-curtained window, he sits and writes about all the people Jesus didn’t save tonight. He reads them to us in his clean white shirt. We sit and listen as the words pour out like crystal clear champagne on our glass tabletops. Sold my dining room furniture At the pawn shop, Grandma forgive me. I’ve seen the sunset in too many bedrooms That weren’t my own, Now I’m falling in love With myself for the first time. I’m gonna paint my pictures Hang them in my living room And pay lots of money Just to have them framed.



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Leslie I do not go to the office of the cottage. I do not call anyone. I am not sure why I didn’t call the police, but I know Ms. Brown is dead. I know Leslie killed her. I don’t know who Leslie is. I don’t know why he killed her. I go to the tripod easel I have built in the corner of the garden. It is made of four pieces of two by four lumber. Three legs, making a teepee, are driven into the ground and nailed together at the top, one board is tacked on the side, making a ledge. I have painted it green to blend in. it is the only thing I ever painted green. I paint in black and white. Those are the colors I understand. I paint the trees, the cottage, the fountain. I have painted this a thousand times. I do not have thousands or even hundreds of boards painted with this scene. Only a few, three hang in the cottage, one in the church and Ms. Brown has some in her gallery and one she says she took home, though I have never been to her house. I do not know where she lives. I have a couple on the shed, drying, and this one I am painting. I paint over the board with a fresh coat of white paint and then paint it again. Suddenly, Ms. Brown is standing next to me. “I thought…” I start. “No, I am here. That looks very nice.” She says. She is kind. She encourages me. “But Leslie…” I start again. “Let’s not worry about Leslie,” she says. Then she is gone. It is getting dark. I put the board away and lock the gate. I am standing in the gate. I just unlocked it and have my bar and my hammer. A young man approaches me. He has curly blonde hair. He asks for Bella. He is wearing a deep red jacket a red with hints of black in it, more crimson. It is zipped up, his hands are in his pockets. I tell him Ms. Brown is still on the main land. He wants to know if she is coming today. I tell him she will be here later. He makes to go through the gate. I step aside. As he passes, I get an uneasy feeling. “What is your name?” I call after him. He turns and fixes me with his dead looking gray blue eyes and says, “Leslie.” I think this means something. There is something about this man. I should warn Ms. Brown next time I see her. I see her, she is in her office in the cottage. I almost wave. Then I think, I hope Leslie doesn’t see her. Where is Leslie? How did Ms. Brown get to her office without me noticing her come in from the ferry? I see the door open behind Ms. Brown. It is Leslie. There is a soft patter on her window. Gray and pink. Soft. I hear the softness. Ms. Brown is there, but I know she is dead. I should go see about her. I should call someone. She is dead. I sleep. I am painting in the garden, from memory, this time, I add the church, where it used to stand. I never paint the chain link fence. I don’t paint it today. Ms. Brown says, “I sold one of your paintings today.” “Here?” I ask. “No, at the gallery, to a man I know. He’s an artist, too. His name is Leslie. You should meet him someday,” she says. “Oh,” I say, “that’s nice.” “Yes, it is,” she says. Ms. Brown is gone. I should work on the gate, but I put the painting in the shed and put the iron bar in the corner of the shed and the hammer on its hook on the wall. I latch the wooden door and go out into the garden. This is my garden. I lock the gate and know tomorrow I will be here again.

Ms. Brown is patient and encouraging, not just to me, but to all of us. She can paint like anything, but she doesn’t. She teaches. She doesn’t teach us like my college art teacher taught me or like the guys on TV teach. She doesn’t teach us to paint like her, because she doesn’t paint. She teaches us to paint like ourselves. “A poet has a voice, but a painter has a vision,” she says. “What is my vision?” the girl next to me asks. It sounds stupid. I am so glad I didn’t ask it. I almost did, because I was wondering the same thing. How do I know what my vision is? How do I paint my vision? One day I was standing near the gate, painting the cottage and the colonnade again and a man I didn’t recognize walked up into the garden from the street. He was obviously a gardener. He said the office had sent him. I told him I didn’t really need any help. I told him I had been the gardener for years, and that I had enough spare time to tend to the garden and still paint my little paintings. I asked him if he wanted to look at my paintings. He started backing out of the garden, keeping his eye on me. I told him, if he really wanted, he could help me drive a seat in the gravel for the gate. I told him I had been trying to get to that for a long time now. He turned very pale and ran. That reminded me, so I put down my brush and went to the shed and got my iron bar and my hammer. When I came back, another man was standing there, which is odd, we don’t get many visitors. This man was maybe thirty, maybe younger, dirty curly blonde hair, red jacket with his hands jammed down in his pockets. Something made me nervous. I felt like this man might mean harm to something or someone I cared about, but you can’t attack someone with a hammer because they have cold steel blue gray eyes. He asked for Bella. I wondered at that. I had known a long time and she was still Ms. Brown to me. I wondered what this white man, a young man, at that, at least a decade younger than Ms. Brown was doing calling her Bella. I told him she wasn’t here. She was on the main land. He wanted to know if she was coming today. I told him I expected her later. He started through the gate, and I let him by. As he passed me, I didn’t like the bulkiness of his jacket. “Who are you?” I asked. “Leslie,” he replied. I should hit him in the head with the iron bar. I know I should, but I can’t hit a man when I don’t know why. I could kill him if I hit him just right. I don’t want to kill nobody. But I know in my heart I should. Ms. Brown is standing next to me in the garden. I am painting. “You have found your vision,” she says, “that is beautiful!” “You mean the garden, or my painting?” I ask. “Both are, but I meant the painting,” she said. “Its only a series of lines,” I say. “All painting is only a series of lines,” she says. “Yes. But my lines are all black and the background is only white,” I explain. “Of course, that is your vision, you see it in black and white,” she said. She is gone. I stand in an empty garden. The tools and the paintings are all put away. It is late. I am about to leave and a young couple come to the gate. They peer in. I call out that the garden is open and for them to come on in. They are obviously tentative, but they come in.

They are lovers. They hold each other close. I can see the excitement in their eyes, but it is not only love. There is a bit of the goodfunfear one has going on a roller coaster or into a haunted house. “We heard this place was haunted,” the girl said. “Haunted? What a strange thing to say!” I replied. “Yeah, some people say a man and a women died here, and they still haunt the place,” the boy said. “I have been here a long time. Never no man died here, A woman was shot once, but that was just Ms. Brown. And she’s fine. She was here a little earlier. You just missed her,” I said. “Bella Brown?” the girl asked. “Sure, why?” I replied. The boy and the girl looked at each other. “You must be the gardener!” they blurted out, together. “Sure am,” I said. “Now this is a pretty garden. It isn’t very big, but it is lovely. If you want to walk around in it a bit, you better get to it. Its almost time for me to lock the gate and go,” I continued. “No, no, we better be going…” they said. After they left I locked up. I drove the iron bar deep into the gravel, one clanging hammer blow at a time, down into the sand and shell rock crust a few inches down. I must have been sunk in about two feet. I pulled it out and was about to go to the shed when a man asked me if Bella was here. I looked at him closely. I didn’t know anybody who called Ms. Brown by her given name. I knew it was her name, because I had seen it on forms, she may have even introduced herself as Bella Brown the first time we met. I don’t remember. It was a along time ago and I didn’t know her then. I was looking for some help with my painting. I studied his face. Not young, a little sun weathered, but this is Florida. Though he didn’t look like a beach kid. His burgundy wind breaker looked expensive, but old, like it was either his father’s, or he had gotten it at the thrift shop on Sunset, where Palm Beachers tended to dump their old but still nice stuff. I tried to shop there once or twice, but I am not that interested in clothes and they wanted better money than most thrifts, so I stayed out of there. And they seemed to not particularly want a gardener grubbing through their stuff. “She’s not here,” I said. “Is she coming today?” the man asked. “I expect she will,” I replied. He came on through the gate. I remembered him. “You are Leslie, aren’t you?” I asked. He turned to look at me. I had to stop him. He would shoot Ms. Brown! I raised my iron bar, but before I could hit him, he stepped aside and pulled his black pistol. He fired. I felt like he had hit me with the iron bar. My head hurt. “At least you shot me instead of Bella,” I said. “Oh, no, I will shoot you both. I always do,” he said. He smiled and walked towards the cottage. I tried to cry out but I made no sound. I sat down, holding onto the bar. I was painting, this time the cottage with only a broken segment of the colonnade, no church, not even all of the stones that were really still there. Ms. Brown touched my arm. I turned to look at her. “I thought you were dead,” I said. “It’s okay,” she said. “I think that is your best painting, yet,” she added.


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Working Class God When I'm done I will meet the god I have created My working class God in jeans and a Dire Straits tour T-shirt He will not look down at me from on high he doesn't even like heights We'll share a cold Dr. Pepper, his favorite, and because he's a good God he'll grant me my last earthly wish to sing like Smokey Robinson We'll replay my life and he'll nudge me a couple times and say, what were you thinking, but he winks at the good parts too There will be no final judgment because the concept of final has disappeared Instead there's a touch football game where the winners go on and the losers have to stay and play the next team God springs for pizza and we watch Woody Allen movies, the old funny ones Late in the evening we talk quietly around a fire He takes no credit for creating a perfect world and casts no blame for how it got screwed up I watch him and sometimes I see a tired look in his eye Then he catches me looking and pretends to throw lightning bolts we laugh, he touches me on the head and it's perfect

Jerry Warmuskerken is a writer of fiction and poetry and lives in Palm City, Florida. Jerry shares one of my all time favorite poems.

... from the mad mind of a poet

...and now....

BTS: How did you came to be a poet?

I write several blogs, from my personal wordpress sites, to the Pulse on LinkedIn where I as prone to talk about poetry or politics as I am anything close to work related, to my actual business blog for our company website, but this is sure to become my favorite, as there is no place on earth quite as special as the warm, friendly confines of Better than Starbucks!

God only knows what I am going to write here in future editions. I am an arrogant know it all and I do not mind sharing my opinions. So we will just have to see. We might even occasionally invite guests to rant or even share truly intelligent and informative stuff here. The Mad Blog


Ann Howells, well known Texas poet talks with Better than Starbucks about her style, and motivation, as well as sharing a poem from her newest collection.

I wrote poems in college (everyone writes poems in college), then became wrapped up in the business of everyday life. I painted, even taught oil painting, but as I began to have stiffness in my hands, I turned more and more to poetry. Also, my daughter developed cancer. I wrote my way through that. It was a means of dealing with my emotions. After she was in remission, I continued writing and became more serious about it. Ann Howells, the BTS Interview (continued)

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Notes From Her Suicidal Bed

Haiku

Some days, putting metal in the microwave seems like the best idea. In the morning, it’s easy to forget your dreams. In the night, too. Not smaller not faster, never younger nor better. Burn of Merlot, burn of Chardonnay, burn of limes. Alkaline. Acidic. Desperate chalk. The vertical blinds separated after dusting to reveal a peek at the Hudson. Through red brick buildings. Mood music in the background. The sound of breaking glass. The color of salt. These things have nothing to do with grief. Christina M. Rau, a New Yorker from Long Island shares her winning poem from the July 2014 Goodreads Monthly Newsletter Contest. Contest winners from other publications are not given any special weight, but we love a good poem, and Christina's is excellent!


mantis arms folded, head bowed he sits serene in prayer the devil's own horse Kay Gardner sends us her poetic observation from Tennessee

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Ann Howells, the BTS Interview (from page 1)

BTS: What is your vision? My vision is to document history in a way in which it may be enjoyed: people's motivations and emotions rather than dry facts. The whys behind the whats. Many of my poems concern watermen of the Chesapeake Bay area a generation, even two generations ago. These were my father's people, and I admired the difficulty of their lives and their interconnectedness. I also write about family, a kind of emotional genealogy, and more recent ly I have begun writing about current events. Often I do not understand exactly how I am reacting to some event until I write, then say, "Oh, that' s how I feel."

Ann gives us a close up view of both Texas and Maryland, of today and of generations past and belongs on any wellread poet's bookshelf! Of course all of her work is not a poetic travelogue. Sometimes the journeys are microscopic or simply between a mother and a daughter or two friends, and sometimes the journey is truly cosmic. I hope you enjoy the ride!

In addition to Cybersoleil, you can find Ann's work on line at Panoply, Dragon Poets Review, The Ghazal Page, Jellyfish Whispers, The Oxford Comma Review, River Poets Journal, and Ygdrasil. Most of the work is fairly recent, though some may be in archives. It will give you an idea of what she writes besides the 55s included in her newest BTS: When did you first start writing? collection Under a Lone Star. As I mentioned above, I began writing in college, stopped for a while, then began again, more seriously. Ann generously provided us with one of her 55 word poems from the Under a Lone Star collection: BTS: Did you start with poetry? “The 55 word poems came about because I edit a journal, I started with poetry. I do write the occasional short story and essay, Illya's Honey, and several years ago I was receiving a lot of even attempted a novel at one point, but basically I consider myself a 55 word short stories. The form had become popular. I poet. thought, why not apply those same rules to poems. Then, I wrote those poems using notes from trips I had made BTS: What is your goal when you write a poem? around the state photographing county courthouses (I've First, I simply want to get my feelings down on paper, every first draft photographed about 200 of the 254). Soon I had enough poems for a book, and my friend, area artist Darrell is in longhand. Then, I begin to revise and refine the poem, make it Kirkley, suggested he illustrate a few of them for me. I sent aesthetically pleasing, an artistic work rather than a journal entry. him the manuscript, and he created a line drawing to accompany every poem.” – Ann Howells BTS: What is your goal in writing poems, or writing, or creating art of any sort? You can find the book at Amazon.com.

I believe I am chronicling. Leaving a record saying I was here, and this is what happened, and this is how I felt about it. BTS: What inspires you to put word to paper? It can be anything, from a particular phrase I hear, to a flower opening, to a shipwreck.

BTS: Besides Under a Lone Star, the book of 55 word poems, do you usually follow form? Most of my poems are free verse. To me, the message is always more important than the form. The 55s came about when I was visiting various areas of the state photographing county courthouses (I've photographed about 200, out of 254) I was trying to capture the essence of each place in as few words as possible. I sometimes write free verse ghazals and prose poems; less frequently sonnets, pantoums, or villanelles. The sonnet is particularly difficult for me, though I admire the form. Occasionally a poem will seem to call out for a certain form, but generally speaking, form is simply not the manner in which my words seem best expressed. BTS: Who have been the biggest influences on both your life, your poetry and on getting you interested in poetry? Area poets Bob McCranie, Christopher Soden, Seamus Murphy, and Joe Ahern were huge influences. My daughter took me to a workshop in Sonora Caverns which these poets, to a greater or lesser degree, took part: Dallas Poets metronomic drip Community. I am still a member of the group, though my daughter is This site was created using WIX.com. Create your own for FREE >>

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not. I still workshop with them twice a month. Christopher was the poet who originally urged me to submit work for publication. I read Mark Doty, Pattianne Rogers, Marge Piercy, and many others voraciously.

I read every poetry journal I can find to see what other poets, like myself, are writing.

BTS: I know you have spent many years involved in the Texas poetry community, did you write when you were in Maryland? If so, how did Texas change your style, your vision, and your message? Or did it not change? How much of Maryland is still in your poems? It wasn't until I was in Texas that my children were grown enough to allow me the free time to write. My husband traveled extensively, and due to his job, we moved frequently -- every two years for a while. So my style and my vision really developed here, though Maryland still permeates much of my writing.

BTS: I notice in several of your poems, the literal earth figures into your poems. Do you see geography as a factor to what you write?

mineral laden begets delicate forms fragile creatures gestating millennia since before man descended his tree howled & stood erect a nether world of germinal rock deep beneath edwards plateau delivers only calcite butterflies limestone reeds & gypsum roses bloodless stillborns that glisten in the light of my spelunkers lamp Ann Howells

Very much so. Plus my Bachelor's degree is in biology. Flora and fauna interest me. BTS: In what ways? My father's family lived on an island. The sea, bays, rivers, appear in well over half of my writing. It is both the physical and the metaphorical background from which I arose.

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Why my Wife Doesn’t Drive a Chair, Anymore For years, my wife didn’t drive a regular car, she had a fluffy, overstuffed chair. It was the best chair, comfy and safe and it took her everywhere. It was a creamy shade of white, and she meant to much effort to keep it clean and soft. The chair was quite special, almost on the order of the car in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It kept her cool in the hot Florida summer and dry in any thunderstorm. Whenever we discussed the idea of her getting a regular car, she would exclaim, “But it is my FAVORITE chair!” And that would be the end of it. What you might not know is my wife is very pro feminist and pro-choice.

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On the back of her chair she put a couple of bumper stickers. One read, “PRO Choice, It’s my LIFE”, so that a glance it looked like it said PRO LIFE, but meant just the opposite. One day, she was sitting at a busy intersection in her lovely chair waiting on a light to change. The light must have been stuck or something because she had to wait a very long time. The cross traffic was heavy and just kept coming. While she was waiting a rabid redneck started yelling at her about how stupid she was to want to “kill babies”! At first, she ignored him, but after a while, (the light was taking f-o-r-e-v-e-r) she turned in her chair and politely suggested he mind his own goddam business. This made him more agitated. He kept revving his motor and pulled up right behind, almost touching her lovely chair. She was getting very concerned for the safety of her lovely chair. She got out of the chair and pushed it into the crossing traffic. She finished her journey without the chair. It saddened her to know her chair was forever gone, smashed to bits, but at least the redneck had not had the satisfaction of harming it.


The next day she was browsing the local Home Goods store, and she noticed through a cracked door, a back room. In the room was a greatly damaged chair. It looked like her chair but was so battered she could not have sat in it, much less drove it. There on the back, a bit worse for having been beaten in the traffic was her bumper sticker! It was her chair. About then a clerk came by and informed her that this was an unauthorized area. My wife replied that it was her chair. The clerk said it had been abandoned on the roadside and it would not be for sale until it had been refurbished. When my wife woke up this morning, she was so happy to realize it had all been a dream and she could still drive her wonderful chair. It took her a moment to realize, not was the traffic incident a dream, but so was the chair itself. Fortunately her Nissan is not quite a dream.

Nicholas Slatterly lives in Manhatten, Ka nsas,but is formerly from Boca Raton, Florida. He assures us that both he and his wife are more conventionally propelled, though they are fond of an occasional bike ride.

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Submit your poem or story in the body of your email. If you want to add it as a word or pdf you may, but unless the submission is in the body of the email, it will not be considered for publication. Along with your work of art, short story or poem, please send your return address and the name you would like listed for the work and the name you want to check made out to, if different from your creative name.

CONTACT email only to: [email protected] "Featured Poem of the Month and it will pay a grand sum of $15.00. There will be other poems, usually one or two that are also paid. These poor souls will recieve $5.00-$10.00 for the use of their poem here. If you submit and we like it, but not as much as other two or three, we will publish it in the Free for All. If you do not want it published for free, make a note. You are not more likely to end up in the unpaid section because you are ope nto going there. It just means you have two shots at getting published. We would like to pay everybody, and if we ever get a grant or sell some ads, we will. (most of the ones here are courtesy adds) Short story pays $25.00- $50.00 We do not keep copyright on any work by anyone in this publication. The exception being work published by the publisher, including interviews.

We DO accept previously published work. If previously published, make sure you have the rights to it. Most places do not keep the rights to poetry. We do not, we retain the right to use them in anthologies or promotional material as we see fit in the future, but we do not retain any copyright to your work. Do tell us where it was previously published so we can credit them. If you self publish it or post it to an open group, we do not consider that published, so no mention need be made. We will not send rejections, we will send a notification of publication and will send you a notice when each edition is published. We pay a pittance for up to three poems each issue. We pay another pittance for a short story.If you have submitted work, and it has not been published within 60 days, consider it rejected.

Submit one poem, short story or image or up to one of each. If we like it, we will publish it. If you are a nobel laureate and we dont like it, we wont. Send one submission no more often than once every 6 months. The subject matter is up to you. We rarely publish long poems (over 50 lines). We rarely publish rhyming poems, though we do have a soft spot for limericks (and haiku, speaking of short poems). In fact, we have a soft spot for short poems. We will publish somewhat longer peices on occasion, but nearly always under 200 words. We will publish any good short story, that we like. Best if it is between 900 - 1200 words. In both the poems and the short story, we arent prudes, but we arent looking for gratuitous sex, violence of crude language. We will accept any of these things if we feel they are important to the story. We will not publish anything that we think can be construed as hateful. That does not mean you cant tell the story of a terrible event, murder rape, beatings or whatever, but make sure you are not glorifying the evil. We love a good story. We love a great poem. Just make sure you dont give us a reason to not like it.



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We are not, as the Beatles put it, a registered charity, but we are hardly a for-profit concern, either. We are basically a shoestring operation. I do not really expect much in the way of donations, but if you would like to help, we will accept. Either a $5, $10, $25 or more, one time donation to pay for poetry or a short story, or you may endow a prize for poetry or fiction on an ongoing basis. An endowed prize would mean you direct the qualifications and the naming of the prize. Whatever you give, if you give, will not go in my pocket, but will go to fund paying creative contributors.

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August 2016 Vol. I No. II

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NO TRAVEL BROCHURE PREPARED ME FOR THIS One dyed strand knotted then another, until sufficient beauty to admire, walk upon, sit. I peer into a room of carpets, no one there. I swear I overheard a word or two. From that snippet I weave an intimate conversation. Fragments possess power. And absence -- no matter how minute – the most audible of voice. Kit Kennedy http://www.poetrybites.blogspot.com Poet-in-Residence SF Bay Times http://www.sfbaytimes.com Poet-in-Residence herchurch http://herchurch.org

Kevin McLaughlin, Poet, Buddhist lecturer, Night Heron Co-Founder, and mentor to an unwieldy community of poets and artists, sits down to talk to BTS about his life and work.

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... from the mad mind of a poet

...and now.... I write several blogs, from my personal wordpress sites, to the Pulse on LinkedIn where I as prone to talk about poetry or politics as I am anything close to work related, to my actual business blog for our company website, but this is sure to become my favorite, as there is no place on earth quite as special as the warm, friendly confines of Better than Starbucks! God only knows what I am going to write here in future editions. I am an arrogant know it all and I do not mind sharing my opinions. So we will just have to see. We might even occasionally invite guests to rant or even share truly intelligent and informative stuff here. The Mad Blog

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As my old friend, Kevin McLaughlin, talked, I typed on the borrowed Underwood while a thin wisp of cigarette smoke curls upward through the sun shining in through ancient grimy windows until a slow moving black ceiling fan breaks it into dust particles that drift almost weightlessly in the air. I don’t have an ancient high ceiling-ed office, an Underwood, nor do either one of us smoke (thank goodness!). We were meeting in the old Post Office Arcade in historic downtown Stuart, Florida. An unnamed mutual friend allowed us use of his private office overlooking first 29 SW Seminole St, then, more grandly, the St Lucie River. He also loaned me his Underwood, and as he is as big of a fan of Kevin as I am, he kept popping in, lighting a smoke, taking a puff and then popping back out while the smoke curled away. He kept me in fresh ground black coffee. Kevin sipped ice water, more in keeping with his Buddhist tastes. The Interview BTS: How did you come to poetry? Kevin: Even in grammar school, I felt an affinity for poetry. By poetry I mean “the best words in the best order,” the realm of metaphor, imponderables, and the supra-normal. Poetry uses words to get beyond words.


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King Midas' Oasis

Haiku

King Midas' Oasis Midas in the desert beheld a head Removed from statue of a king long-dead Removed from any other mark of land, A golden head staring up from the sand. No carved skull but a chiseled face Thin and muscular, full of grace One must assume, but with a stare Fierce and greedy: an angry glare. There in the desert stared that head Blind to how past it, time had crept; As the sun rose up, it illuminated The sand: gold, unkept, wind-swept, Devoid and as bodiless as the head He beheld himself in the sand and wept. Mark Herron

Mark Herron is a Midwestern American poet and information professional in higher education and healthcare, as well as a Community Teaching Assistant (CTA) for the Modern and Contemporary American Poetry (ModPo) MOOC offered by the University of Pennsylvania through Coursera.org. Mark got started formally writing poetry at Oberlin College (B.A. English and Theater, 1989) and then went into the sciences at John Carroll University (M.A. Biology, 2000). Mark lives in the Great Lakes area and writes on many topics and he typically writes shorter works early in the mornings. Some of Mark's poems and other works are available on his blog at http://theouterringblog.blogspot.com

summer solstice the sky bursts into sparrows © Martha Magenta Martha Magenta lives in England UK. Her poems focus on a wide variety of topics including: love, loss, spirituality and meditation, environment abuse, and violence against women. Recently, she has begun to write haiku. A number of her poems and haiku have been published in online journals. Her other activities include: organic gardening, herbalism, and aromatherapy. She is co-owner of POETS, the second largest poetry community on Google Plus.

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Where night was, now a flush of light. One thousand miles an hour and still it comes slowly. A silvery rill, a rising. We turn and turning, lean into day. Another revolution revealing tree, stone, bird. This is how it is made. This is how it is remade. To turn toward the shore of morning, hug the cusp of sleep as the world takes shape and we name it.

North and South

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Julie lives in the high desert of central Oregon, anchored to the west by mountains scribed with snow, to the east by sage and distance. She says, "I write to translate the world."

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The roaring sound of the fighter jet deafens the inhabitants of far north A regular occurrence They are used to the sound but not for the consequences Over them is the suspicious sky At any moment the monstrous bird could loom over Uncertainty is what they experience Mothers keep watchful eyes on their infants, mindful at the children at school and husbands at field wondering whether they will return to her safely And praying at the same time for their safe return The heart thumps fast even to the smallest sound Being alert is the key for survival When will the bombs rain down? When will the guns whizz bullets? In a fraction of second anything could happen They could lose their homes, the lives of their beloveds, the part of their own body Torn between power greedy lunatics They have lost the right to life. The buses and trains at rush hours in the south are filled with suspicious and fear filled faces Uncertainty looms in their eyes A fire cracker would be enough to scatter them as wild bees A fear always nestle in their hearts A fear for a human bomb or unknown parcel that could blow them up A silent prayer is always on their lips for safe return to their loved ones left behind The right to life, the basic human right, denied A mother, a wife, a sister live far south The haggard faces demonstrating anxiety and fear Always in expectant of news from the front of the north where their son, husband, brother battle with terror They live on the edge Burdened with uncertainty Praying for the safe return of their beloveds The right to live with peace and happiness denied In north innocent suffer In south innocent suffer In north and south same prayer, same hope, same whisper for peace. Piyangie Ediriwickrema Sri Lanka

Pirouette Confessions By Doren Damico

Anthony Uplandpoet Watkins

Tonight Pirouetting salsa diva Permutations of the ideal Twirl Smiling Stare into Tomorrow night Rivulets of perspiration Perfumed pheromones communing Skin Sliding Swing over Night after tomorrow Diffusing pristine fantasies Plethoric and piteous step Dip Falling Perdition Night thereafter Passion phoenix resurrection Perspicuously percussive twins Twist Stepping Turn become Forever Pertinacious flick of the wrist Falsely passive domination Play Dancing Sex in the Morning Doren Damico is a lyricist and poet with a passion for the art of being human. For more poems and poetic commentary check out her blog archive, Poetry, at: dorendamico.com


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Free Poems Interwebbed Immersed in floaty, uptight worlds Devoured by sensory overlord He preaches, feel something now Search for formless online truth Money that bleeds hungry Dances around concrete soldiers Slinking through walls Wondering how she devours seconds Never understood rules on a checkerboard Where two-dimensions intersect Peace feels crazy muted, distorted Where pieces don’t fit, stuck inside Youth gets left behind in text messages Locked inward, cramped spaces Where lives squish Tightly wound together with hazy blur Take a look outside, people Solace seeks temptation in soulless form Digital blues meld with a blank canvas Smoggy, ocean frothy and churning Sing your insecure judgement Hymns belt out drug-induced churchmen Don’t hide behind A closed imagination Dreams of the past Shapeshifts through centuries Shivers inside These hollow lives Pain that joins us Devours clocks Brains buzz and fry As you slip inside the wormhole Cracked hearts Lean and topple over This paranoia mystery Eyes swallowed whole. Copyright Therese Pope Therese Pope is a poetess-in-progress based in the beautiful foothills of Northern California. By day, she’s a professional copywriter with a penchant for yoga and vino. Her poetry is written through the lens of the mystical and esoteric with a smattering of modern pop culture and the groovy influence of the Beat poets. She finds her writing inspiration through dreams, nature and her practice of yoga. She has been an online teaching assistant for the University of Pennsylvania’s Modern and Contemporary American Poetry online course for the past five years. She is currently writing her first poetry anthology. Freud’s First Slip Red silk, taken from his mother’s

For Van Gogh, Under August's Full Moon The bales, thick, gold, rest on thirsty grass. But the hope for renewal — a For Sale sign, blob of white, a red streak for lettering. What's to come in this suburban field? On the trees, a snagged garbage bag waves like a scarecrow's ghost. No larks nor laborers, artificial light blots out stars. Still, on your palette the color of God. Sylvia Riojas Vaughn has been named a Houston Poetry Fest Juried Poet three times. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work appears in Red River Review, Triadæ, HOUSEBOAT, Diálogo, Desde Hong Kong: Poets in conversation with Octavio Paz, and Bearing the Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems.

June 23, Santiago by Sean Denmark Tomorrow the train, where one is not passed twice as on a racetrack. After all these years of goodbyes to so many new friends only begun to be known, how is there still that same bitter gall of sadness?

Local Poetry Readings Wherever local is to you, please send us your local poetry reading venue, be it traditional stand up poetry, slam, spoken word, or even a quiet circle in a living room reading quaint verses. If you know of live poetry anywhere, send it to us and we will post it here!

the stones are bridges where birds slow dance across in single fashion -anon.

TABLE FOR THREE Oh child among the roses, oh press of doves, oh presidio of fish and rosebushes your soul is a bottle of dried salts and a bell filled with grapes, your skin. Ode With a Lament Pablo Neruda Egg-yolk yellow police tape flaps in the morning breeze, delineates the area, is the bold evidence left to say: "caution, beware, a bad thing happened here" An impromptu memorial: teddy-bears, gaudy balloons, hand-fashioned cards expressing heartache and love leans haphazardly against an opening smashed through the patio tree grove, oh child among the roses, oh press of doves. The staff cannot resist talking although the place is not opening today... "Is it true, he didn't die right away?" And the wind may be forgiven for sobbing as it whispers to the lilacs not to listen to them. Anyone passing by would hear only minutiae-like sounds, the pulls and pushes as bits of grief and sadness circle there, and always on the breeze, soft shushes, oh presidio of fish and rosebushes. There's no denying the facts as wretched as they be, especially as your tiny soul lingers on. How to explain to such a one that a party just for you should end so unimaginably. No wonder the wind cannot speak above a whisper, nor expose, with whom lies the fault. Does it matter now who caused your death, who it was couldn't bring the car to a halt, pinning you to the wall, stealing breath and life; your soul is a bottle of dried salts. Would there be a way to fill your Mama's empty arms, her emptier heart—we would. But catastrophic events such as this leave little corporeal with which to work and the reality for us, and for you is that now you need unfold your ephemeral wings, and soar above us all—go, you who are without sin. Go where you will become whole again... Remain not where your everyness lies broken, where birds weep, eyes grow blind, bones thin, and a bell filled with grapes, your skin. S.E.Ingraham Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest - First 2013 (published April 2014 Winning Writers)

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The thing is, when Abundance, A Harvest of Life, Literature & the Arts and Sleeping Bear Press were in their heyday (1998-2002), we received hundreds of This site was created using WIX.com. Create your own for FREE >>

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lingerie drawer. He strokes the shirring beneath the bust, cups his breasts. Wiry chest hairs creep from the neckline, tickle his fingertips. Straps like licorice ropes, he longs to taste them. Three rows of lace hug the bottom, cannot hide his bulging thighs, sturdy legs. He sits in the dark, fingers the slippery fabric in his lap, inhales a trace of perfume. Remembers being rocked, suckled. The slip puddles on the floor. He forces the window open, lets the cold Vienna air soften him. Returns to his desk, rearranges his collection of Greek and Egyptian figurines, strokes his beard. Dips pen in inkwell, blots once, twice, starts to write The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. by Nina Bennett previously published in Alehouse, 2011

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Delaware native Nina Bennett is the author of Sound Effects (2013, Broadkill Press Key Poetry Series). Her poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net, and has appeared or is forthcoming in publications that include Gargoyle, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Houseboat, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, Philadelphia Stories, and The Broadkill Review. Awards include 2014 Northern Liberties Review Poetry Prize, and second-place in poetry book category from the Delaware Press Association (2014). Nina is a founding member of the TransCanal Writers (Five Bridges, A Literary Anthology).

submissions, but as we are brand new, we are still in the dozens. We had a couple of other poems we would have published except they had been marked as "for consideration with pay only" which is fine, but they were not quite what we will pay for... We do want to pay for poetry and we look forward to our tiny contribution to paying for work, but if you want to be part of BTS in the future, you double your chances if you select, please pay, but please consider for publication in "Free for All", too.

These are poems, images or whatever posted for your entertainment without compensation, but with permission to the creator. Please do not reuse without permission of the creator, and without noting "Published by Better than Starbucks".

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A Word About Free for All:

Works featured on this page are in no way of any lesser quality than those found elsewhere on BTS. These wonderful creative people are simply sharing there work without financial considertion. We are very grateful to all those who contribut to the labor of love, paid or unpaid. Without the arists sharing their vision, there would be no BTS, and no art or literary journals of any sort!

Ain’t So Shane: “Cattails and bulrushes!” © KJ Hannah Greenberg Liam: “They’re the same plant. What’s going on in ya head?” Liam: “Say it ain’t so.” Shane: “Experimenting. I had a bet with your sister and I plan Shane : “Ain’t so.” on cashing in.” Liam: “Ya don’t mean it.” Liam: “Is that related to why ya posted those pictures on the Internet?” Shane: “True.” Shane: “No. Besides, I got 10K per image.” Liam: “But for profit?!” Liam: “Bunk. Nonsense. Cryptids don’t exist.” Shane: “Profit. Some images sell well.” Shane: “Sue me.” Liam: “I thought ya wanted popularity-a chance to be a top dog.” Liam: “Photoshop?” Shane: “And to get smash-faced. Contrary to popular belief, even though I’m a grandpa, I’m not too old.” Shane: “See this scar on my arm….” Liam: “Ridiculous!” Liam: “From fighting mythical beasts? Ain’t so!” Shane: “Shrewd. My future’s become a great, golden cloud in a Shane: “No, from forgetting to shut the door between me and the crystal-blue sky.” cat when I vacuumed the living room. Margaret should have taken that dang thing with her when she died.” Liam: “Clouds are white, maybe gray. The sky’s not made of quartz. Ya mentally stunted.” Liam: “So, tell me, again, why I had to meet ya here.” Shane: “You know nothing. Why do I bother? Friend, there are Shane: “Reda.” four ways of wisdom. Some people use resources without pondering their nature. Some use and ponder. Some don’t use Liam: “She really asked ya to visit? She used to cuss ya in high and don’t ponder. Some ponder, but don’t use.” school.” Liam: “That took three drinks?” Shane: “We’re older, now.” Shane: “Four. I began before you got here. Pity about your Liam: “Can’t believe it. I thought she still hates ya. She spent sister.” more time in detention that she should have ‘cause ya were Principal McGiven’s pet. Okay, I get that ya not into men, but Liam: “?” maybe ya have repressed gender fluidity? Can’t figure, to this day, why the principal had the hots for ya.” Shane: “The newscaster, not the ergonomist. I sometimes talk to that older sister of yours, the one who lives in Kansas.” Shane: “I was gorgeous and still am, but never was that type. I’m vanilla through and through. Truth is, I’m not really going to Liam: “Missouri. The younger one lives in Kansas. Same visit Reda.” difference.” Liam: “And ya not really into bondage.” Shane: “She asked me to visit her.” Shane: “I never was and I doubt I ever will be. Here’s the money Liam: “The newscaster? She doesn’t swing ya way. Only the back. I’m not going into those kinds of stores. Unsettling.” younger one does.” Liam: “And those pictures on the Internet? Posted by someone Shane: “I don’t swing her way, either. Older one’s a pretty else?” woman, though.” This site was created using WIX.com. Create your own for FREE >>

Liam: “Huh? Sure. So, why are ya visiting her?” Shane: “Stuff. Business. Don’t look so weirded out. Anyway, I want to borrow some things from you…to make our meeting interesting.” Liam: “No. I never lend my toys.” Shane: “Ah ha! You admit to using the local dungeons!” Anthony Uplandpoet Watkins Liam: “Not what ya thinking. Not the ones with whips or chains, but with dice and maybe some stale pretzels.” Shane: “Seriously? That’s it after all of these years?” Liam: “100%. I’ not into dog rank, outsider sex, or young chicks. When Betty died, I became celibate.” Shane: “Boring!” Liam: “Responsible.” Shane: “Then why did you want to meet in a bar?” Liam: “Here, take this money. If ya want toys, there are shops.” Shane: “Bribing me to leave? You just got here. I hoped we could talk.” Liam: “Don’t forget to give Sis my best regards. Are ya sure ya in touch with her? That’s so strange. Say it ain’t so.” Shane: “Skype her! Verify it!” Liam: “We’re not close. I haven’t seen either of them for a while.” Shane: “I’d rather have your hand-me-downs than go to one of those shops. Creepy places.” Liam: “My weapons and armor tables? My dice? My character How to Submit sheets? Doubt it. Here’s another twenty.”


Shane: “Yup.” Liam: “Any ya don’t really shack up with young people like ya told me on the phone.” Shane: “Yup.” Liam: “So, rather than having become a top dog, ya still a milquetoast.” Shane: “Yup.” Liam: “Then why did I have to meet ya, tonight? I have a big report to present to the board, tomorrow. Next, ya going to tell me ya don’t really have plans for visiting Reda.” Shane: “Yup. It ain’t so. And I’m not as wasted as you think I am, either. I’ve been drinking ginger ale. No matter. Just turn around slowly, very slowly.” Liam: “What! That’s like everyone I love. How did ya remember my birthday? We only got back in touch a few weeks ago.” Shane: “Janet, that sister of yours, who’s actually living in Kansas, remembered. We’ve been Skyping for a while. By the way, we set a date- save next May 15th. She’s over there, too. Do you see her waving? It was her idea to make this party.” Liam: “Dawg! Say it ain’t so.” Shane: “No. I love her more than anything. Well, except for Margaret, but, before she died, Margaret made me promise to try to be happy again.” Liam: “Reda knows?” Shane: “Set us up. She’s over there, next to Janet.” Liam: “Unbelievable. So she forgave ya?” Shane: “Yup. Come on, we were kids. Anyway, the two of us should join the party. Happy birthday, future brother-in-law!” Liam: “No! Say it ain’t so.”

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Kevin McLaughlin and Jerry Warmuskerken

Kevin McLaughlin, the BTS Interview

(from page 1) BTS: How did the son of Irish Catholic New Yorkers become a Florida Buddhist? Kevin: Causality. From the moment of the Big Bang, 13.8 billion years ago, my karma, created by cause and effect, led me to Florida and Buddhism. Initially, I settled Cocoa Beach, and then moved to Jensen Beach in 1973. In High School junior year, my friends and I came across “Zen Flesh, Zen Bones,” translated by Paul Reps and the writings of Alan Watts. These books started me on the Dharma path. BTS: Did Buddhism lead you to haiku or the other way around? Kevin: Buddhism is the path to the liberation from suffering. This is achieved through meditation, mindfulness, compassion, ethical actions, and an understanding of the true nature of reality. The Zen school stresses Satori, periods of understanding when you see your true nature, and comprehend both absolute and conventional reality. These moments can be memorialized through Haiku. No seventeen syllable, three line verse is truly a haiku unless it reflects at least a glimpse of Zen.

The sound of the wind, Hollow stems clack together,- The black bamboo grove. BTS: How have they both affected your life, in general, and in regards to poetry?

Kevin: Poetry and Buddhism help me to stay mindful every day, sometimes every minute. They assist me in avoiding daydreams, distractions, memories, and "what if" scenarios. What led you to the Vampire Tales," Kill the Buddha?" While at Stony Brook University, I was profoundly affected by the Swedenborgian derived Gothic writings of Joseph Sheridan LeFanu, a 19th century Irishman. One of his finest works was Carmilla, a novel about a lesbian vampire. LeFanu was my inspiration. Also, I enjoy writing narratives. Naturally, I wanted

BTS: Tell me about the Night Herons Kevin: The Night Heron Poets were a phenomenon that began in October 1993. Having lived in the arts oriented Stuart community for many years and both having wide ranging acquaintances, Julie Bertrand and I believed the area might be rich with talented poets. We were right. Encouraged by the cultural venues Julie had attended during a short stay in New Paltz, New York, we planned out the format for an open mic poetry night. Chancing across Lyric Theatre house manager Jim Rogers one evening when we were in downtown Stuart, we presented our proposal. Jim agreed immediately to host the evenings in the then coffee house setting of the theatre's lobby. Microphones and speakers and chairs were west up with the focus being the Baldwin stage with its Osceola Avenue back-drop. We met the third Wednesday of each month at 8:00 pm, and drew upon a unique selection of accomplished poets from high schools, colleges, the middle aged folk, and a number of senior citizens. It was a standard open mic event, based on signing up and taking the stage for approximately 6 minutes. One of my favorite aspects of the evening was the tremendous appreciation the different age groups expressed for one another. Eventually, Night Heron Open Mic Night became the hottest ticket in town. Friendships were made. Images and metaphors transported those present. Talented poets suddenly had an outlet for accomplished pieces that would, otherwise, have been stashed away in desk drawers. I believe having participated in The Night Herons will have a lifelong positive effect on those who read, as well as those who came to listen.


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to place my gothic writings in modern day Florida. BTS: Are you still leading others in Buddhism and or Haiku? Kevin: I belong to two Sanghas, one Tibetan in Lake Worth, the other an eclectic Sangha that meets every Wednesday night in Anthony Uplandpoet Watkins Stuart. Approximately every four weeks, I present the teaching, a facet of Buddhist doctrine I accompany with a pamphlet or hand-out. I have self-published an e book on Amazon, Three Turtles on a Log, that has placed me in contact with several of America's leading Buddhist authorities, including Red Pine/Bill Porter, who is best known for translating Chinese Sutras (EX: The Heart ) into English. Bill's commentaries are considered definitive. I also have an informal email circle with whom I exchange Haiku on an almost daily basis. Kevin has graciously shared one of his famous Vampire Key West tales for our Fiction section this month.

The Night Herons formed a mythical group of poets when Stuart, proudly represented by the Lady Abundance statue, was a cultural center. Eventually the Poets self-published a volume that was praised by many people who were fortunate enough to have the volume pass into their hands. There have, of course, been many Golden Ages. The Night Herons open Mic Night at the Lyric were one such Golden Age. Ubi Sunt, and may all the poets be continuing their work. Even Julie and I were overwhelmed by the national level quality poetry that was read on that stage. Dr. James Lancaster, Brenda Black White, Jerry Warmuskerken, Anthony Watkins, Paul Ryan, Sheila Rimer, Shadow Baldwin, Art Noble, and many other gifted artists read their pieces to very appreciative audiences. And, of course, all in the house that night will remember Julie's spirited performance art readings.

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Cast a Cold Eye By Kevin McLaughlin In full daylight, beneath Sloppy Joe’s whirring fans, I conducted my own interview with a Vampire. Duval Street in Key West is a fine place to encounter a Vampire, particularly one who bore such a close resemblance to movie actress Gwyneth Paltrow. A waiter brought me a glass of tonic water, a plate laden with crackers and baby gouda cheese, and a mug of hot mustard. There were maybe twenty people in the bar at this late morning hour, mostly fisherman types and grifters seated at the horseshoe shaped bar. None of these men could have guessed the deadliest predator in the establishment was a pretty, small boned blond haired female. I sipped my drink as she told me her story, and the story of her race. “Most of what Bram Stoker and the others wrote is correct. Vampires are demons. We are the Undead, and we prey on the blood of the living. Many of us have an aversion to light, and we can be destroyed if our hearts are impaled by certain kinds of wood; Dade Pine is one such wood. I, myself, am no more sensitive to light than one of your human albinos. For some, the terror of the sun is worse. Each of us must spend a part of the day beneath the earth. I am not sure why that is.” The attractive revenant paused in her narrative to savor the aroma of the cabernet sauvignon that was set before her. She’d requested this meeting, had contacted me by telepathic means while I was snorkeling the previous day in the Dry Tortugas. I never did learn how she knew I was in the Keys, developing a story for Abundance newspaper.

“The second, lesser known race, is an Irish hellspawn, and I am their Queen. These blood feeders are descended from the Druids and Dryads who had intercourse with the succubus and incubus common to the Celtic islands. The taking of blood makes the males priapic, and the females insatiable. “ My own human ancestors left Ireland in 1822, traveling in steerage to Boston, and from there to St. Augustine. My father killed a slaver named Edgar Watson in a bar brawl in the 10,000 Islands, and we fled the law to Key West. “At time I was 19 years of age, and thought to be a girl beautiful enough to make the moonlight jealous. As you can see, I resemble Gwyneth Paltrow. Many of our kind are shapeshifters. They can appear in whatever form or guise they choose. But my appearance is not a trick of selective transfiguration. You see me as I appeared 176 years ago. I was an innocent. I knew nothing of evil and nature’s cruel workings. “My family prospered, pulling wealth from the ocean. The bounty resulting from harvesting turtles, manatees, sponges, and shipwrecks enabled us to build a two story Georgian home near the city cemetery on Margaret Street. “Soon after we moved in, I began ro have disturbing dreams. A young woman, as fair as myself, clothed only in sea foam, offered me a blood filled chalice, and sang of immortality and the end of earthly suffering.She stood balanced on an enormous conch shell, and her pose reminded me of Botticelli’s painting of the birth of Venus. Her voice created a strange, appealing dissonance in my loins. “Being a Roman Catholic, I resolved to discuss these nocturnal episodes with

“For three months thereafter, I fed on the blood of raccoons, oppossums, and whatever other small animals I could catch. When my strength and speed grew adequate to the task, I began to take humans, mostly riff raff from Stock Island. Periodically, I treated myself to a delectable young male. I have a sense of moral correctness…now I feed exclusively on tourists and developers.

“Which brings me to my proposition. I am the Thane of a Vampire Sisterhood. We need your help, and we want you to join with us against a common enemy. Like your species, we are part of the Food Chain. As with humans, we feed on the warm-blooded, on mammals. All animals hunt, and bring pain. Not much separates Vampires from Human. “We make good friends. If you join with us, we continue to take our food from the bottom rungs of society. Only the true scum of your line need fear us. We can move in and out of your people as if we were invisible. Working closely with you, we can prevent, maybe even correct, some of your race’s mistakes.” I believe what you’ve told me, particularly in light of the physical evidence you’ve provided,” I said to Sinead. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve selected me as your ally. I’m a 59 year old retired factory worker/investigative reporter with arthritis pains in every joint and bodily crevice. I call Ibuprofen breakfast. I have no political or civil power. I live on a fixed income, and I’m absentminded. How can I possibly be of any use to you?” Sinead smiled at me like the benevolent Goddess Tara. “You’re a marathoner,” she replied, “who maintains a steady level of fitness. Your diet consists of vegetable and protein bars. You work-out regularly with This site was created using WIX.com. Create your own for FREE >>

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“My true name is Sinead Finnegan,” she continued, and I’ll tell you more later about myself, and what I’m proposing to you. But first, I must tell you about my race’s antecedents. “There are two distinct Vampire races. The first, the better known, are the creatures descended from Isis and the unsexed Osiris. They are mostly Egyptians and Latins, and have been celebrated in those beautiful Ann Rice novels. They are lethal, prone to melodramatics, and incapable of performing sexually. They are scholars, artists, and historians. They spend centuries cultivating their sensibilities. “They copulate neither with humans, nor with others of their kind. Their sole Anthony Uplandpoet Watkins passion is in the taking of blood, and it is this way only that they may reproduce. A future Immortal is selected for its beauty and intelligence, and the thick vein at his or her throat is drained. By means of a complex chemical interaction, human blood is replaced by Vampiric, and a young Vampire is made.

Father Donnelly, our Parish priest. Odd, isn’t it? I, a soon-to-be Vampire, worshipping in a church where the faithful regularly drink the blood of their God in symbolic sacramental services. At any rate, I meant to make my confession, recite my Hail Marys, and be absolved. “She who would make me Immortal met me that morning in the church garden. Our lips brushed together, then she sank her fang teeth into my jugular, and drank while I slipped into a lazy euphoria. Her fingers played with the buttons at my bodice, and then she drained the thick, red vein traversing my left breast. Her caresses enfeebled me. Vein by vein, she emptied the corpuscles and platelets, heedless of the pain and pleasure she caused. Then I drank eternal life from the blood engorged mound that rose so prominently from her labial folds. “Vampires are not gentle creatures. No afterglow. They don’t court, and they don’t fall in love. She discarded my body in a clump of mangroves, and covered me with muck and marl. I died, shed the corpse’s bloat, and arose three days later from the tidal pool as a Demon.

dumb-bells, and have the physique of an Olympic gymnast, albeit, a skinny one. “But your physicality is not why I’m revealing myself to you. Your main advantage to me is that you’ve taken the Vow of the Bodhisattva, have taken refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. You’ve sworn to work ceaselessly for the happiness and enlightenment of all sentient beings. It is this trait which makes our common enemy, the Vagina Dentata fear you.” I made the deal, not realizing the extent to which my life, from that point onwards, would take on the episodic rhythms of a gothic novel. I did not foresee the covenant I made with the women Vampires was lifelong, and would place everyone I love in danger. I am a creature of narrow habit. Even though I know better, I dislike change, and cling to the status quo. One small digression. In conversation afterwards, I learned Sinead had traveled to Ireland during the time of the Easter Rebellion. There, she’d drained the auricles and ventricles of many a British heart; and she’d taken a mortal lover to her bed, the poet William Butler Yeats, Before I returned to the Bed & Breakfast on Simon Street, and the arms of my red haired wife, I listened to Sinead quote the epitaph on Yeats’ tombstone. Cast a cold eye On life, on death, Horseman, pass by.

Be sure o read this month's BTS interview with Kevin McLaughlin where he discusses his journey through Buddhism, Haiku and his inspiration for the "Killing the Buddha" series of vampire tales, as well as his time with the Night Heron's from its origins until today.

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