wVw 2015 Anthology

wVwAnthology2015FrontCover2"These works expose the dark undersides of life with vibrant, strong imagery, a range of memorable personae and voices, and compelling visions. There is the speaker in Tim Brennan’s “The Urge,” who mediates on the costs of war and revolution for the young, and in her creative nonfiction work, filled with raw, precise detail (that gives us a time and place), Colleen Geraghty creates a child narrator, hyperaware and sensitive, who views the “slime,” “the losing time,” the waste, violence, and abuse of women in her Irish childhood. And yet the works affirm the possibility of hope and do so eloquently.  Perhaps Kate Hymes’s injunction in her poem, “Believe, “ best embodies the subtle strengths of this anthology:  “Hold within you the knowing/ Wounds are possibilities/ Made manifest at the edge-tip/ Of scratchy pens and sharpened tongues.” 
--Jan Zlotnik Schmidt, Distinguished Professor of English, SUNY New Paltz

Bythema Bagley
Claudia Battaglia
Tim Brennan
Gloria Caviglia
Susan Chute
Meg Dunne
Barbara Edelman
Kim Ellis
Jeanne-Marie Fleming
Allison Friedman
Colleen Geraghty
Kate Hymes
Barbara Martin
Linda Melick
Barry Menuez
RoseMarie Navarra
Jennifer "Jen" Roy

Purchase copies at Amazon.com, or directly from wVw for $8.00 (email This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.).
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Just how did those Mystics do it?

Sacrificing, tortured souls

Eyes pointed heavenward to avoid temptation?

While we mere mortals struggle and yet so easily fall

Our confessions for all to see:

An empty box of Girl Scout Thin Mint™ cookies
Recent Comments
Kate Hymes
Thin Mints were always my weak spot. I was one of the GS Moms who volunteered to distribute cookies. I would have boxes and boxes ... Read More
Tuesday, 28 April 2015 21:11
Melissa Fischer
Even reading this brings back the tantalizing smell of Thin Mints.
Wednesday, 06 May 2015 11:56
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Shopping in New Paltz

It’s a sweet little village with mountains in view
There are bistros, and cafès, and much you can do.
You can climb up a mountain, swim in a lake,
See an eagle, an egret, a bear and a snake.
The Sincere Pumpkin Patch you will find here,
And leaves in the autumn are beyond compare
We have writers and actors and artists galore
But one thing we don’t have is a General Store.
You can’t get a curtain, a teapot, a blind,
And umbrellas and beach balls you never will find.
No pocketbook, wallet, no change purse, no hat,
No nightgown, no bathrobe, no baseball, no bat,
Not a high chair, a beach chair, a bench or a stool,
Not a towel, a sheet, colored thread on a spool.
No sticker, no sweater, no glove for the snow,
No bedspread, no pillow, no trumpet to blow.
Not a fabric, a scissors, a pattern for fitting,
A doghouse, a bird house, or needles for knitting.
No cloth for your table, no bra and no stocking,
No curtain rod, bath mat, nor chair made for rocking,
If you’re troubled, we have sixty therapists here,
But you can’t buy a clothespin in New Paltz—nowhere.
Recent comment in this post
Site Admin
I can't help but wonder if there is a link between no sundries and the need for all that therapy. Also: no decent pickles!... Read More
Thursday, 16 April 2015 16:34
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1 Comment


Fall 2014 Challenge. wVw writers were challenged to write abecedarian poems as culminating work of the workshop series. Several writers stepped up to the challenge. Several of these poems challenge the view that this acrostic form is unable to contain serious themes.

The poems are pubished beginning with Tim Brennan's A Bove the Cove.

Tim Brennan
is a a poet,artist and woodworker. His work has been published in Wallkill Valley Anthology 2011 and Chronogram. He is a frequent featured reader at various Hudson Valley poetry reading venues.

A Bove the Cove

Above the cove
Battered by shifting winds,
Clouds change faces,
Divert the sun's
Flickering off wave-tops like the
Glass shards of smashed bottles.
Heavily-armed children,
Incandescent fish-lines
Jigged for flounder and tautaug,
Kill without remorse––
Lancing puff-ball blowfish
Mothers' egg-filled bellies––
Nascent life left to wriggle
On the pier, to dry in the sun.
Poles are sunk into shallows where
Quahauggers tie their boats, where
Razor-clams, mussels, and blue crabs flee
Seagulls in the boats' shadows.
Terra firma slides out of sight
Under clear waves the sea pulses–– a
Ventricle to earth's heart-rhythm
Where giving and feeding, water
Extracts from the drowned boy his
Yang, his years of expectation, and his en-

Susan Chute

Psalms at Shul

Shabbat with the Episcopalians: An Abecedarian

All the day long I listen to the choir
Boys sing their medieval melodies in a
Complicated purity of overtone like
Dawn sky, pale, pink, purposeful, my quotidian
Eschatology, why I am ineluctably to be
Found over my misericord in carved choirs of
Great gothic cathedrals, suffering some sermon.
Hesitant in the House of the Lord I sit, this Friday night an
Interlude in the synagogue, where the combined choirs,
Jewish and Christian, attack the Chichester Psalms with a
Kinetic precision that converts cells, an alchemy that
Lodges subcutaneously, a lament that spins my
Molecules into a dance with peace that passes comprehension.
Now the visiting priest parrots, hear O Israel, the Lord our God is
One, our father goes further, the only one, the only way, his Justice will
Preside. Baldly he shills this cursed land, the infernal Boolean
Query, Israel AND/OR Palestine, no ifs or buts. Oh Bernstein,
Rescue my sorry soul, spare me scenes of
Suicide bombers, blood splatters, terrorists in the
Temple, sing, you sopranos, let pour from your throats
Unholy harmonies, color your cadences, round your
Vowels, summon thunder, give voice to the wonder of
Well-tempered weighty wretches like me, systematically
X-ing out any possibility of transmuting ancestral animosities.
Yellow bellied buttercups, we wait upon the Son who left home, the
Zealot with no back to turn, the One who could not scale the gates of Zion.


Kim Ellis


Always and never changing

Beach shapes itself under

Curling waves.

Dunes rearranging for

Each sunrise offer a benediction.

Feathers tumble along the tideline.

Gusting wind sprays rainbows.

Halos circle each step, soft sand sifting

In between toes.

Jellyfish collapsed in a glassine heap,

Killdeer skitter, gulls sleep.

Leaping dolphins breach and blow offshore.

Moon-ruled tides,

Neap, high, and ebb cradle

Oceanides, nymphs of the sea, while

Psamathe, goddess of sand beaches, strews shells of

Quahog, ark, scallop, whelk.

Rolling in from foreign shores

Sucking and spitting, the sea

Tastes the sand,


Vast as thought.    

Wandering jet streams map the sky, making    

X’s of cirrus.

Yearning for union, the sea mirrors the    

Zodiac above.

John Martucci

The ABC's of Mysticism

Apparitions in the mind
Bring hints of revelation,
Clarity of inner sight,
Dazzling visions of
Finality fades into nothingness.
Grace fills the spirit.
Horizons of infinity spring up.
Ideals become punch lines to Cosmic
Kindness toward the
Living brings the
Miracle of love.
Nebulous mutterings of
Oracles, and
Paranormal research, are no match for
Quiet understanding.
Resonance with the waves of Fate bring
Stillness in the eye of chaos.
Trancelike states of
Unconsciousness recall the
Venerable mystics who
Walked in wonder, penetrating mysteries like
X-Rays through the body of
Yahweh.  No wonder the wannabes are

Barry Menuez


Another billionaire
contributer donated
every fluted glass
hoisted in joyful knowledge
luxury means no old people
questions regarding senility
topics using vernacular words
xlosic yeasty zestful
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Full teacup
Wet teaspoon
One blue plate
One thin moon

Full teacup
One long night
Two bare feet
One bare light

Full teacup
Weathered floor
Three green chairs
One shut door

Full teacup
Empty room
One white pill                        
One thin moon
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