Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997) Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news.

Children, Churches and Daddies

Volume 1

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine

ISSN 1068-5154

children, churches, and Janet Kuypers (children, churches and daddies) And the little girl said to me, “I thought only daddys drank beer.” And I found myself trying to make excuses for the can in my hand. I remember being in the church, a guest at a wedding of two people I didn’t know. My date pointed out two little boys walking to their seats in front of us. In little suits and cowboy boots, this is what is central Illinois. And my date said he was sure those boys would grow up to be gay. And the worst part was their father was the coach of the high school football team. I think I laughed, but I hesitated. I remember being in the church, it was Christmas Eve, my date’s family went up for communion, and all I could think was that singing the hymns was hard enough, I don’t know the words, what am I doing here, what am I supposed to do? And I stayed seated, and everyone else slowly walked to the front of the church. Little soldiers in a little line, the little children in their little dresses walking behind their mommies and daddies. And the little girl said, “I thought only daddys drank beer.” And I found myself trying to make excuses. wedding lost, by Janet Kuypers And she sees herself in the passenger seat at night, her fiance beside her, and the lights seem all too bright, and the rain seems all too loud, like the thunder of soldiers running across a field to war, swept with the drunken feeling of patriotism, charging toward their unknown enemy. And so it happened that night, the lights got brighter, the car started to spin, and then she started to dream. And she sees herself at the end of the church, the bridesmaids have just walked down the aisle, the music changes for her. She feels swept with the euphoria of love, and she begins to walk, but she falls, the bouquet falling from her hand. And in slow motion, white roses and lilies scatter along the aisle. And she looks up, and the groom is gone, and the ground is the ashes of the house they bought together after they were married. She sits up, and she’s at the desk at the bank, trying to get the loan for the house. His job is secure, we’re young, nothing could go wrong. Good thing he wore the blue tie to the bank, and not the red one. And she sees herself waking up from sleep, the oxygen pipe still under her nose, her husband there, tie in hand, asking if she’d like to hold their baby. But she could have sworn she heard the baby stop crying. And she panics. And then she wakes up, her head is bobbing, but now she’s back, back at the hospital, looking at the tubes running out of her fiance’s arm. done this before, by Janet Kuypers I keep looking back at your picture. I’ll flip it over to stop from staring at it while I read a page from my book, but a minute won’t pass before I’ll have to turn the photo over again to see your face. It’s as if I can’t get away from it. My flight was delayed, I’m at O’Hare Airport, the airport that departs three planes every second, or is it one plane every three seconds, oh shit, I don’t remember. I have to wait at least three hours for my next flight, hey, if so many planes take off here, then why can’t I get on one of them? Oh well, so I decided to waste my time in one of the airport cocktail bars, by gate L 4. I thought I’d start with a white zinfandel and work my way to mixed drinks, but this wine tastes so good that I think I might just have to have another. I’m so exasperated, I hate to wait, and all I have is a good book to keep me company. I used your photo from my wallet as a bookmark. I need these things to keep me sane. It really isn’t bad here in the cocktail bar by gate L 4, the chairs aren’t that uncomfortable, even though they’re a pretty ugly shade of green that doesn’t match anything in the room. It really isn’t that bad, in a foreign city, in a foreign airport. Not when I’ve got my Sutter Home White Zinfandel. And my picture of you. You know, there’s a blonde girl dressed well with a bad perm across the bar, and she’s smoking a cigarette. I know I don’t smoke, but I’m almost tempted to ask her for one just so I can hold the cigarette the way you do. I’d like to taste the tar, the nicotine, the way I taste it in your kiss. You think I don’t like it, but I do. They’re playing a song in the cocktail bar, a song that reminds me of an ex. I wanted to marry that man. He had a knack of being able to envelope me, to take my troubles away. I don’t know if I can take away my troubles myself anymore. I don’t know if the liquor’s helping, or the cigarettes. Your photo helps, my little bookmark. At least for now it helps. Sitting in this L 4 cocktail bar reminds me of my brother. When I was young he’d always pick us up at the airport, but if he wasn’t waiting at the gate we knew to look for him at the seafood cocktail bar. a part of me expects him to come walking through the doorway now, flannel shirt, ski jacket, wind-blown greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses. You know, when I’d look at his eyes through those glasses, his eyes looked twice as big as they actually were. I could imagine him now, I could imagine the smell of his Levi’s of dirt from the construction site. I remember that smell from my father; I’d smell it every day when he came home from work. It’s my brother’s business now, he’s got his own family now to worry about instead of a little sister. So I’ll just sit here at this airport cocktail bar, remembering the days when I’d sit with him in a place like this and I was too young to drink. God, I want to see my brother walking in to this bar at L 4, ordering a shrimp cocktail. I want to see you, babbling on about a movie you reviewed or a gig your band had. I want something that isn’t so foreign, like this bar. Or maybe I want something that isn’t so familiar. I took your picture out of my wallet, the wallet that has so many pictures of men who have come and gone in my life, men who have hurt me, men who I have gone through like... like dishwashing liquid, or like something I use all the time and replace all the time and don’t think twice about. I’ll just sit here, in this airport, trying to care just the right amount, not too much, but not too little. So I’ll just sit here, in this airport cocktail bar, looking at your photo, and wondering if I’ve done this before. PATTERNS, by Sandra K. Each time I looked in the mirror I saw your face haunting me, your words echoing all around me I tried to erase your memory by pounding on the glass But only the mirror changed It cracked - creating a giant web like the one of deceit you built all around me Spent and bleeding I walked away knowing that it will never change VOYEUR, by Cheryl Townsend the cigarette looked good between her fingers like a firm cock between two legs she put it to her lips taking in long deep drags of its burning satiety and he watched her as she enjoyed her habit across the alley way window to window level darkness surrounded him like her perfume if she was there his hand like her lips enjoying each hot drag taking it in letting it out NO RHYME OR REASON, by Cheryl Townsend It was the moon light, I tell you It was the fucking moonlight of my soul Dark like evil with a persistent good trying to sway my decision Not quite bright enough Like a halo in Hell I couldn’t see it I couldn’t hear it I didn’t hear her but I know she was screaming and crying about her baby “Don’t hurt my baby”. Christ, we were alone Maybe she had some moonlight too It didn’t make no sense Yeah, and I fucked her Maybe she was screaming cuz I was so good It was dark I couldn’t see if she was smiling But she kept going on about that baby I think she was crazy, you know Nobody else around OH BY THE WAY, by Cheryl Townsend he raped her 10 years old it disgusted him he hated the feeling hated her crying hated her fear hated the power she gave him hated it all so much he killed her cut her up like shattered glass like breaking a mirror of his won reflection previously published in Radio Void, v. 3, #4, June 1992. getting the goods, by Lyn Lifshin “In recent months, according to reports from Thailand published in the Far Eastern Economic Review, murdered infants have been used to transport heroin across the border from Thailand to Malasia” A wind blowing through dark elephant grass a blood sun over the rice fields a man holds an infant underwater, black hair snakes the child gurgles then doesn’t a plastic rattle bobs on the water like a head before the water goes from blood to wet bark the child is slit emptied out like a trout or a hen stuffed taut and plump with small bags of heroin And before the moon is a pale grape in the musky nught a woman paid as well as the dead child’s mother will wrap the corpse in a shawl hug it close seeming to smoothe the damp hair into place as if snuggling a sleeping baby getting the goods over the border that July, by Lyn Lifshin something under skin crunched and frizzled so it seemed someone else was inside. People turned a way as they do those who’ve survived some explosion, lost their face only go out at night, My mother and I drank apricot sours, all that wld stop the pain as ants bloomed in the hot noghts and after lying flat as long as I could I brought the manuscripts that were howling all the summer, diaries we read of the woman who only wrote when she left her body as lightning bugs grazed screens and damp walnut leaves huge as palms shook where squirrels tore the pale nuts from them, like survivors who, laughing, wash their hair in underground streams how it happened, by Lyn Lifshin There was this hotch outside in the trees. when we came back the old people were crying. After that I’d shoot up all the time the little kids pulling at my knees crying, the old woman had popsicle sticks, they were scraping pieces of a woman off the wall. I could tell that by the breasts in a corner. Even the animals wouldn’t come near us * You see a guy get his face blown away you do things you don’t want to think of. By the sixth day I was mainlining all the time not to feel high I didn’t want to feel anything * First you so scared then it’s hard to live with yourself But I didn’t get hooked until the hospital in Japan. You understand they nepalmed us by mistake. First I couldn’t feel much. Water won’t put it out. Now I go out in the sun and I feel fire. I wanted to get off morphine but they said why not get unemployment TICKET, by C Ra McGuirt for olga you got a ticket for going too fast through a school zone and i counseled you to pay it through the mail. i knew it would cost you less in the end than going to court and traffic school, but you are a woman, and wise in the way of savings though new to this part of the planet, and you are not my child so i could say nothing further. you sit on my knee tonight, long wet hair down, bedraggled and woebegone. you tell me that they were severe. your head hurt. you didn’t understand the questions after the film. you realize what i was trying to spare you now, strong woman. oh, my child you were chastized by forces beyond my control. “a fight for air”, by Edward Mycue I. A Fight for Air Towels soak in the sink Roots crack, splinter Each sound’s a stone screaming successive millions of mute islands a secret care I keep folded under my fingernail dawn after dawn The thrill is uneven The saliva curdles Sunset climbs closely to the fight for air. II. Buried World The Great River plains desert Red Rock Red River Gulf of Mexico deltas bayous hill country conscribe an end and a beginning, leading from these years this journey back to nineteen sixty-one Dallas: blotch concrete spread out on the plains. We’d come to Texas thirteen years before in a slope-back forties Ford. I was eleven then. We’d pass through Erie, Kentucky, Delta States to arid, fissured land and bottomland and floods to dying apple trees. Then summertimes and othertimes Dad took us with him one by one to get to know us on his travels through his Southwest territory, him talking brakelinings for a Firestone subsidiary company that let him go not long before he died in a chaos of fear and pain he said was not like pain but was pulling him apart. III. Father “We brought our children from New York to take a better job. My wife supported me. Her hair turned white that first year. She was thirty-three, had borne us seven kids in our hometown, Niagara Falls. Through all we fought and stayed together pounding with our love. I was thirty-six that year nineteen forty-eight. Our oldest son was twelve. The baby was a year.” IV. Rain Starting Caution Stop Signal Passing Being passed My father seems beautiful his geographical eyes a cage of ocean dreams who’ll never dream again so stubborn, gentle, singing anytime some snatch of song he’ll never sing again. Nostrils flaring, lungs honking, at the end he couldn’t hold his teeth only wanted air Air His food came back I hear him say NO, No not pain I’m falling No steel, green-painted, rented tank of oxygen could help since death will come when cancer eats the brain. It rained the day he died and it rained again on burial day (Good Luck, it’s angels’ tears, they say the Irish say.) The dog killed cat run off morphene soaking into sand. Gigantic stones snakes apple trees his eyes. V. Grave Song End of night melted threw my heat in the fire O my mama place in the white it was too big for me I wanted out out I got out Go downstairs say of wiz de light off wiz all de lights up up up up wiz de fire up wiz de fire (say UP with the fire) I am afraid of the door rats on the stairs miles miles miles to the light and I can’t say it there’s only me and and everybody and that is no body nobody but some thing behind Lock it! Lock it! Go go downstairs Run Run Run Run out out out They are moving Dark is light Things in the air Tie Ta Tie Ta Tie Ta Tie Ta people gone Cows moo in the fields and are gone It does not hold Hums Hums Hums Hung birds in bottles, eggs writhing like worms and the fire burns. VI. Little Lifetimes Children crush crackers between stones celebrating luck and joy seeing with ears, breathing music from trees, flowering in pure deliciousness awakening graves, unarmed againstt the rain. In time - silence: stoning sterile trees, praying the dead will sleep between the swollen roots. The wind rushes in saying hold my ground, carve your own road - the design that develops. Now a face begins to emerge seeking air examining death to doscover patterns in the movements of little lifetimes. INTERIOR SPACE, by Connie Meredith Just inside the door there’s a stuffed moose head then six stairs up to the Widow’s Watch. There’s a piano, and a chair, It’s mine; It’s safe. It’s home for the historian, the dreamer, and the frightened child. I slide down th banister when I like. originally appeared in Scripsit 1992 by Jim DeWitt I recorded this almost as if from an interview after I’d talked with Lana, age seven, a student in one of my reading groups. She was very anxious to tell me about her ofter-recurring dream. Her mother Cathy died just the year before in a fiery Pinto crash. Here is the exact substance of what she said: Dream, oh persistent dream will you return again tonight? The darkness comes back longer and blacker still. Mother, I see you drift like an aura into my bedroom and ask “Why are you crying, Lana?” Yes, I thought I’d been awakened by my own tears when you came again. “What’s wrong, Lana, what’s wrong?” Your voice seemed so harsh. Then as it woke me up I saw my father standing beside my bed, concerned, comforting. Then I’m flying high above the earth in a small, open airplane. Suddenly it’s being shot at repeatedly. I can feel the hot bullets so close to my skin. It explodes. The flames are a bright yellow ball all around me. Now I’m falling faster, faster. The pressure of the air feels like dying itself. I look down and I see my own funeral. I’m fixed upon my open grave. Flowers are everywhere, bright-colored living blossoms surrounding the casket. The mourners are standing there everywhere around. All of a sudden a hawk dives down at me picks me up with a jerk carries me higher and then drops me. Now it has become a huge bat that throws me hard, back into my bed. In its mouth is a shiny fish. The bat slaps it down onto my bed. Its cold fin scrapes my skin. I escape across my bedroom to hid in a dark corner of the closet. The fish has turned into a ghost puffing up gray-white, almost filling the room high up to the ceiling. It forces me to come out of the closet after suddenly popping inside it with a booming “BOO!” Then I drift back into my bed and sliding underneath my bedsheets begin to cry softly. The night is even more completely black. Oh Mother, I can hear you asking again “Why are you crying Lana? What’s wrong, what’s wrong?”

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.

Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright � through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”, which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright through Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.