Monday, January 28, 2013

ROBERT PAUL CASARETTI, Editor of Ginosko Literary Journal is Calling for Short Fiction, Poetry and more.


Nancy-

Accepting short fiction and poetry, creative nonfiction, 
spiritual insights for Ginosko Literary Journal.

Editorial lead time 1-2 months; accept simultaneous 
submissions & reprints; length flexible, accept 
excerpts. Receives postal submissions & email—
prefer email submissions as attachments.  Authors 
retain copyrights.  Read year-round.

Publishing as semiannual ezine. Check 
downloadable issues on website for 

ezine circulation  8000+. Website traffic 
1000+ hits/month. Ad space available.

Also looking for books, art to post on website, 
and links to exchange.

Ginosko (ghin-océ-koe) 
To perceive, understand, realize, come to know; 
knowledge that has an inception, a progress, an 
attainment. The recognition of truth from experience.

Member CLMP.  Est 2002.
Listed in Best of the Web 2008, 2010.
Publish annual print anthology.

Ginosko Literary Journal
Robert Paul Cesaretti, Editor
PO Box 246 
Fairfax, CA 94978

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Inaugural Poem read at Second Inauguration of President Barak Obama on Jan 21, 2013


"One Today"  
by Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Where to Submit Your Poems --Call For Poems Now


Unshod Quills 
Unshod Quills accepts submission of art and writing based upon themes 
SUBMISSIONS TO OUR SEVENTH ISSUE ARE NOW OPEN

Themes: Elvis, Your Very Flesh, Gratitude, Groceries, Rivers, or Salt.
Deadline February 15, 2013 Midnight PST



Kudzu, the literary magazine of Hazard Community 

and Technical College, is accepting submissions for our 
Spring 2013 issue until January 15, 2013. 

•No more than 5 submissions in any genre 
•Each piece should be submitted separately 
...Follow these Guidelines: http://legacy.hazard.kctcs.edu/jy5/academicaffairs/Kudzu/Kudzu2006/subguides.html
Kudzu Submission Manager  kudzu.submittable.com

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

A NEW YEAR MESSAGE FOR WRITERS AND POETS




HAPPY NEW YEAR FELLOW WRITERS.

Here Above the Frostline, the hard freeze has arrived. Gone now are the roses. Even the hardiest Camellias have faded. But you know the truth.  The flowers are not dead. Trees are not dead. They inform us year after year that they are still alive, still as busy as they can be, doing what they must do until spring.

It is the same for us writers and poets. Even though we must hunker down for the winter, we do not hibernate. There is work for us to do, stories and poems to write. 

This is the ideal time to tidy up our writing rooms. It is time to revise and to complete older works that have been stored away. It is time to evaluate and ask ourselves,"Is there a magazine that wants my story?" or "Is my poem ready for publication? Have I given it to the reader?"   If your answer is "yes," submit it, mail it. By the time spring arrives, when flowers push up through soil and leaves sprout on the trees, your stories and poems too will live.


In the spirit of sharing markets for writers and poets, I'm posting my most recent info about FutureCycle Press. It is still in operation and quite active. They published the work of ten individual writers last year and in their anthologies, published the word of over one hundred other writers.  I had two of my poems published there last year, so I trust this press. Check it out. FutureCyclePress http://visitor.benchmarkemail.com/c/l?u=1E932C0&e=255CB1&c=36D6C&t=0&l=246E98C&email=zER5P4AKNgsFCVzmKbknuQ%3D%3D