children’s art from the war zone
lyn lifshin

images of death
flight and
loss in lollipop
trees. Dark
lumpy clouds
rain down black
lightning bolts
and red tears.
Men cast into
skinny blue
streams, come
up with cheer
ful smiling
fish. Where
butterflies
flutter near a
drawing of
fires, bombs
in hair, Jasmin
draws doves, a
roof topped
with flames

dream of the harassers
lyn lifshin

They start off, after
I’d smiled or said,
“maybe,” or wrote
“promising” on an essay

First the call, then
the gift, roses on the
stoop like some
abandoned baby. Some

times they even
slam against the door,
lulled by booze, are
there, like a Chevrolet

on a pillow camouflaged
by ivy. It takes time
to stumble past them.
I double lock every

car window but they
take that as a lure,
like one who sang 7
hours under a window

as tea steamed, fogged
the glass, howled,
“me thinks the lady
doth protest too much”

and for 12 years
send two to five
letters a day, never
with a return address,

porcelain dolls, mobiles
bad books. Then he squealed
for hours on my phone
mate. Police just
shrugged since he hadn’t
actually shot me, except
on the canvas he kept
slashing with paint,

trailing globs thru the
Hilton lobby where I went
to speak on getting a
gallery. He hasn’t

stabbed yet, we can’t
the police sing, do anything
until. The more locks
I put up the quicker

he’s there to try to
jump them unable, to
refuse a challenge,
I guess. Two men shove

the door in, leave
dead bolts dangling.
I hustle people at my
cocktail party out,

the evidence ragged as
a dead elm in the moon.
Isn’t this enough, isn’t
it what I can use,

can’t I get him and
the obscene phone callers
who know my license, my
favorite color shoes

like mud off me?

the page, to inspiration
janet kuypers

and you would still appear, appear in
the paper
I held in my hand,

rippling waves in the pages before me,
a dorsal fin
of a shark circling my head,

watching its prey. I could touch
the page
and still feel

the rose I threw over the mahogany
box in the
November cold,

the grass covered with ice, cracking
every time
I took a step toward you.

I could feel the pain in the paper, and
I could
still feel the cold

marble, freezing my fingers. And the
etched message
on the stone could still

took hold of me the way you did.
All I had
to do was look at your

writing and feel the blood rush, feel
your breath
on my neck, feel

the fist jumping out from the page
and hitting
me in the face. I could feel it.

I could feel a thousand wars fought
and won
on your page, in

your words. I could feel your hot
breath
pushing up against

my neck, I could feel your hands taking
my shoulders,
throwing me back in the chair.

I would look at your paper and see out the
window the
masses rising, rioting in the

streets. I can feel the tide rising from
your thoughts.
What do you possess? What

have you been through, to give you
such a gift? I
look back at the page,

and I begin to feel your hand from
under the page,
from in the desk, razor

in hand, shoving up through the fiber,
slicing at the air,
trying desperately to get to me.

And I get up from my chair, walk over
to the bathroom,
almost like memorization.

I feel nothing but the drive you felt.
In the mirror,
there are cuts on my face.

in the backwater
lyn lifshin

the baseball diamond
slips, a few
feet each day
into dark water

like a secret,
mumbled, then
taped over, locked
away. What’s

murky creeps
thru sand bags. The
Illinois bubbles
up from bathroom

pipes, finds a
way in like
depression

there i sit
janet kuypers

there I sit

I sit alone
separated
isolated
away from my only love
my obsession

I pull out
a fountain pen
I look
at the lines
the contours
of his face

defining
the piercing
eyes
the pointed
nose
the tender
lips

I feverishly
draw
I sketch
I capture
his image

I stare
I gaze
I memorize his every detail
but he never looks back

so I will draw
until my
fountain pen
runs dry

writing your name
janet kuypers

I sat there
in the shade
I took
a stick
I wrote
your name
in the ground
preacher says
the #1 sin
is lust
then I am
condemned
to Hell
for
I
want
you
and I
don’t care
what
preacher says
for if
the elements
wash away
your name
tonight
I will
be back
tomorrow
to write it
again

tall man
janet kuypers

I can feel your presence across the room
a movement a stir

your long shadow stretches across the walls

an occasional glance
I’ll take whatever I can take

a stranger
yet I feel I know you all too well

the 200 millionth coming (c93, v I-VII)
c ra mcguirt

I. i. After passing the Night with Words, I turned off My Machine for a Coffee and the Paper. ii. I don’t remember the Headline: Someone Somewhere was in Serious Trouble. iii. I made for the Editorial Page, because Opinions (however Stupid), are usually more Compelling than the Somewhat Objective Truth.

II. i. In letters to the Editor, They were still Bitching about jesus; Who he Was; Where was he From; the Color of his Skin and Eyes; Whether or not he’d had a Dog; & who he would Have Voted For in the Last Presedential Election. ii. All had a different jesus, but, in every Case, jesus was Their Boy.

III. i. I rolled My eyes, & as I knew the Actual Jesus would want Me to, decided to Straighten the Whole Thing Out. ii. so, without any Effort, I Scribed an Epistle to the Editor. iii. despite My blurry Eyes and bleary Brain, I felt It to be Good, especially the Line about 2000 Years being too long to Stay Fooled.

IV. i. I posted It, & to My surprise, They published It with Triple Stars, which Meant that, though They didn’t necessarily Countenance such Old-Time Blasphemous Heresy, They felt My Words would stir some Shit, & that My Satanic Spewings were Reasonably Well Constructed. ii. the 3 Stars also ensured Me a Place at the 3-Star Letter-Writer’s Banquet, & all the tough roast beef that I could chew, at Some Point, in Some Hotel, in the Vaguely Indefinite Future. iii. all told, It seemed a fine 5 Minute’s Work, & so I Called It Cool, then Kicked Back to Anticipate a Mailbox full of Good Hate Mail, and maybe a Burning Cross or 2.

V. i. a few Days later, when I thought that I had been Forgotten, (no Promises of Hellfire for Me, or the Likes of Me, had shown up in the Paper, or My Box) I got 2 letters with Unfamiliar Markings, & Knew, by their Vibrations, They had Something to do with jesus. ii. the First was from a Woman Who Wrote: “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR LETTER! & told Me She Knew What I Meant about Looking in the Mirror. She signed Herself proudly as an EX-CHURCH MEMBER. iii. I figured It had to be a Fluke, & opened the Next Envelope. iv. It was from Another Woman, Who Wrote on Recycled Paper, & enclosed a SASE, that I might Write & recommend Holy Books of Truth to Her. further, She spake, & said unto Me that She had Faith in My Faithlessness.

VI. i. I Wrote each a Reply, & tossed in some Pertinent Poetry: sufficient to hearten Sincerity, but much more than enough to discourage Lukewarm Curiosity.

VII. i. weeks have passed, & No One has offered to Crucify Me yet. ii. I think I confused Them. iii. I usually do, whenever I Come Back Again.

other horizons
paul weinman

When he had a choice
he’d choose rooms with no view.
Wanted walls
wished for no vistas or mtns.
valleys, sunsets in the west.
Oceans beyond that glass
made him sad. He’d see dreams
of officework bustle
computer terminals setting
everything in order
calling up forms
to add the new data.
Yes, nods congratulations
from the boss. But no ...
same old grind, pigeonholed
- nighttime entertainer.

the farewell
joanne seltzer

translation: Guillaume Apollainaire

I picked this airy sprig of heather
Autumn is dead you must remember
On earth we’ll see each other no more
Odor of time sprig of heather
And remember it’s you I’m waiting for

L’Adieu

J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruy?re
L’automne est morte souviens-t’en
Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre
Odeur du temps brin de bruy?re
Et souviens toi que je t’attends

dad’s transition
mary winters

At first - glad to see him
beause she missed him:
why she opened up the coffin
to take a look at dad. Mom
looked too - made sure
he wore his wedding ring.

Funeral home helped raise the
lid - proud of its work:
eyelids sewed shut, neat;
hands symmetrically folded.

He looks so rested, so
relaxed, they said -
ten years younger.
Nice suit you picked, said
Aunt - wonder if he’s got his
shoes on where we can’t see.
Later - glad she didn’t touch
his face; just poked his wig.
Dad’s first night underground

was it anything like the
first day home from the
hospital with a new baby:
sense of forever, a fate.

run away
mary winters

Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn
acted demise: hid on a
river island, snuck into
church for their wake

saw Tom’s aunt cry, the
Widow Douglas in tears -
before the lickings. To

pretend one’s own death -
you want something
invisible to
do with your body:

trip to far South or
far North; head to toe a
new look if you want to

watch them drag the
river for your body or
hear your own eulogy
(the boy’s final fillip).

Suicide goes too far.
What you’d like to
scream at a friend:

why didn’t you
buy the gun,
write the note, then
run away.

vietnam veterans
lyn lifshin

I thought I’d be Florence
Nightengale in green
going through a tent
with a candle. The
day I got there,
another nurse was killed. We’d
worked on anesthesia,
shot-gun tracheotomies.
What I saw was nothing
as simple as that.
´
I came out of a small
Catholic High School,
ROTC was necessary
in my college. I
was raised in Audie
Murphy in Walk on
Water. We saw
films of mutilation of
the enemy that made me
want to keep my grades
up. I got another
deferment, saw my
friends die, got
guilt feelings,
mabe because
I was Catholic
´
I grew up in a military
family. My grandfather
was killed in the
Civil War, an uncle
in Guam. I remember
my father’s military
stars, the tattoo
on his arms. Strangers
came across the street
to shake his hand and
in restaurants, no
one would let us pay.
In a week I saw it
wasn’t John Wayne
and Rambo, rosemary
and sweet wine. No
one I started with
lived. I came back to
two years in the
Philadelphia Naval
Hospital, drank
gallons of booze,
then decided to
stop and write
about it

vietnam veterans
lyn lifshin

We didn’t remember right
away, it seemed like
fantasy. I wrote about
delivering a baby and
another nurse, John,
said I don’t remember
that, you must have
been fantasizing. Then,
we saw a slide of him
holding the baby
´
I started the book
because I had to give
up drinking. I’d seen
An Officer and a Genlteman,
I thought it was a good
movie but that I had a
lot more to say. Got a
Bic pen and a yellow pad,
thought I’d put on some
sixties music, write a
page a day. Some days
I didn’t write at all
but when I got 120
pages I sent it to New
York, couldn’t believe
that tho no one would
let me talk about Nam,
now I was getting paid
to write it down
´
I gave up punching out
people and started
punching a typewriter.
I gave it to my wife
to put on the word
processor. We’d been
married 18 years and I
never taked about it.
She said her fingers shook
´
For me, the hardest
part is the traige. Who
I had to let die.
I see the name
on the wall and
don’t know who
I might have
let go
´
we used a can
opener for tracheotomies
Those that screamed
loudest my supervisor
said had superficial
wounds. The quietest
were often down to
the last pint of blood.
The worst part was
having to choose

(continued)
´
We’d practiced going out
on operations as a
grunt you don’t
know where you’ll go
or how long. Some
will get maimed, some
will die we were
walking past and a
friend of mine,
Jeremy, got shot in
the throat. There
wasn’t much blood. I
carried him all night,
I felt I had to. On
my first day I’d
fallen asleep and he
woke me. I felt I
had to carry him
´
the last words
from the first man
I killed were
“Oh mama”
´
How did I do it,
write a book, not
being a writer?
Well I had a
great rage. I
could kick ass with
the best of them and
I could use that
rage on paper
´
I flunked English in
college. But, I was
confused, I had to
know, did this happen
or didn’t it
´
I was so angry I
could barely breathe
sometimes. They
couldn’t accept a
woman exploding in rage
so I had to find
another way. I got
out of nursing, went
back to college.
Bits and pieces of rage
poured out, they
found their own way
´

(continued)

Why, I asked
did I come back,
why could I be
at the wall? Why
could I be at my
father’s side when
he died? How could
I write when so many
saw so much more and
couldn’t? I think it
is to testify
´
I was 18 flunked
out of college. My
girl friend told
me she was pregnant.
I came from a broken
family with no job,
no future, thought
in the marines I’d
get training. They’d
taken care of the
birth. Then, I come
home be a hero,
make it on the
GI Bill
´

I signed up out of my
home town. I had no
job, no future, joined
Army Airborne. Little
did I know Lyndon
Johnson would make
us the first division
to go
´
I came from a big
Irish Catholic
family and JFK
spoke to me when I
heard hin say, “Ask
not what your country
can do for you.” It
meant everything tho
he was dead by the
time I graduated
high school. Still
I knew I’d be in
Vista or Peace Corps.
The Marine recruiting
guy turned out to be
someone I knew since
nursery school and
then I knew what
I’d do
´
(continued)

dream girl
larry blazek

I need a woman as fine
as a motorbike
a hard, fast woman
like a motorbike
Won’t quit on me
if I treat her right
if I had a woman
as fine
as a motorbike
that would be alright

the wading pool
debra purdy kong

seek comfort from her. Now that she thinks about it, Maureen hasn’t seen Hayley talk to him since they arrived. Hayley sees her watching, and returns the stare until Maureen backs off, temporarily. She waits for Hayley to comfort her child; instead, she takes Nathan’s diaper off while he turns his head away, as if bored. Again, Hayley looks at Maureen who suddenly watches Chelsea sweep her plastic tube along the water’s surface. When a couple of parents call their kids out of the water, she studies the expressions on their faces. Behind the sunglasses, it’s hard to tell what their reactions are to Nathan’s accident.
Once the baby is dressed, Ellen helps Hayley pack her diaper bag. As they stroll behind her bench Maureen swiftly turns to them. “Is your little boy all right?”
“He’s fine,” Hayley answers bluntly.
“People have complained how slippery the pool is,” she says. “Its’ supposed to be repainted soon.”
“Maybe they should get off their butts and do it,” Ellen remarks as one of the boys wraps his arms around her waist.
Watching Hayley lag behind Nathan on the gravel footpath, Maureen prays Ellen’s relationship with her sons will rub off on her friend. Soon, Chelsea is the last child in the water, but she loses interest in her tube and steps out. Maureen stuffs the newspaper in her bag, then checks to see if the pool maintenance woman is close by.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she says as she drapes a towel over Chelsea’s shoulders. “I want to talk to the people who look after the pool.”
Chelsea gazes at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s one thing I can do to keep children from getting hurt,” she says. Holding hands, they walk away, leaving the clear, turquoise water calm in the sunshine.

Won first place in Housewife-Writer’s Forum, 1992.
Previously published in Women’s Work, 1993.

frail, white skin. The second his navy blue cap is plunked back on his head, off he goes again.
“Hayley,” her friend calls, “did you put sunblock on him?”
“I didn’t bring any,” she answers.
Maureen pulls a newspaper from her bag, then scans the headlines. When she looks up she sees the baby head toward Chelsea in the middle of the water. Hayley sits on the bench on the west side of the pool and lights a cigarette. Maureen wants to tell her how slippery the surface is, but isn’t sure she’d appreciate the advice. Besides, she’ll probably jump in when she sees him.
At the center, the water is up to the baby’s ribs. Maureen glances at Hayley who’s dragging on her cigarette. Two feet from Chelsea, he slips and falls face down in the water. His bulky diapers and blue cap bob on the surface as he rolls back and forth. A panicky, inner voice orders Maureen to do something; yet his mom’s sitting right there, surely she’ll help him. Maureen watches his tiny body struggle to turn over. She wants to look at Hayley, but is afraid he’ll go under if she turns away. His body squirms in the growing panic.
Maureen kicks off her sandals; she glances at Hayley who stands up and takes a last puff of her cigarette before tossing it on the ground. Suddenly her friend shouts “Nathan!” then rushes into the pool. She scoops up the baby who blinks and begins to cough. The woman examines him a moment, then pats his back.
“Ellen,” Hayley calls, “is he all right?”
“I think so.”
Maureen can’t understand why Hayley doesn’t run over to see for herself. If Chelsea had lost her footing she’d be comforting her with hugs and kisses. If Chelsea had fallen she would have been in the water in two seconds. She blushes because she didn’t jump in for Nathan, and she’d assumed how another person would react to a sight so unexpected and alarming it had seemed almost unbelievable.
As she watches Nathan, Maureen wonders why he doesn’t cry from fear or shock. He doesn’t make a sound as Ellen carries him out of the water, then hands him to Hayley.
Hayley holds her baby, but doesn’t talk to him, nor does he appear to
The wading pool’s clear, turquoise water is calm in the sunshine at Rocky Point Park. Maureen watches her three year old daughter run toward the pool, carrying a plastic tube half her height.
“slow down, please, Chelsea,” Maureen calls as she struggles with the picnic basket and the rest of her daughter’s things. Chelsea wanted to bring all of her floatable toys, and Maureen was too tired to argue with her. Between her job downtown and work at home, she rarely feels rested, but there are bills to pay and Chelsea’s education to consider. She still hasn’t found the courage to ask her boss for time off to think about other financial priorities.
At the edge of the pool, Chelsea turns to her. “I want to go in the water.”
“You’ll need some sunscreen first.”
Maureen plunks the basket on a nearby bench. Already hot and sticky, she glances at the cloudless sky. As she applies the lotion, Maureen cringes at the purple nail polish on Chelsea’s fingers and toes. Last night they played dress-up, and this morning she forgot to remove the varnish.
“Be careful, honey, the pool’s slippery,” Maureen cautions. Last week, the pool maintenance woman told her people had complained about the surface, and that it would soon be repainted.
Minutes later, eight children are in the water while the adults sunbathe or read. Maureen doesn’t see the baby until he’s two feet from the pool. He can’t be more then ten or eleven months old, but his stiff-legged steps are determined. Tiny fists are raised close to his chest and a slight frown wrinkles his brow. Two women, right behind him, chat with one another until three little boys try to pull the shorter woman into the pool.
“Come on in, mom.”
“No way,” she laughs.
“Nathan’s mom is going in,” one of the boys says.
“Nathan’s too little to be in the water by himself.” Maureen thinks the woman entering the water doesn’t look old enough for motherhood. Light brown hair falls to her waist, a rose tattoo decorates her ankle. The young woman glances at her, then redirects the baby towards the pool’s edge. When he climbs out of the water, she removes his wet t-shirt, exposing

black water lily
larry blazek

The flower of injustice
grows best
on the side of tyranny
that lapps the shore
of the isle
consisting of the defiled
and rotting remains of innocents
deceived, disarmed, shot in the back, and piled.
Americans, take no pride
What have you done to stem this tide?
The Nazi, dictator, and Communist
foul deeds turn our stomachs
in disgust
gaze upon
an Indian reservation
19th century massacre
present indignation
They came here
They learned from us

biographies

Larry Blazek, editor of “Opossum Holler Tarot”, is generally a groovy guy (even though he’s from Indiana). He’s also sending chapbooks to people who send in the postage. Contact cc&d for more info.
Lorelei Jones is a high school art teacher, working on her eleventh masters degree, I think. Her art work stemmed from photography into computer generated collages. Her work will be appearing at the art exhibit “Women and Children First,” starting December 3rd.
Debra Purdy Kong is a criminology graduate. Born in Toronto and Raised in British Columbia, Purdy Kong has been writing since 1980. She has completed two mystery novels and has been published in magazines in Canada and the United States.
Janet Kuypers, editor of anything she can get her hands on, has just had the chapbook “Slate and Marrow: a collection of poems” published through Bootleg Press. Contact cc&d for more information.
Lyn Lifshin resides in Washington D.C. She has been published on many occasions here at cc&d, and her latest series, Vietnam Veterans, was written after visiting veterans and listening to their stories.
C Ra McGuirt lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife, Olga, and stepson, Ivan. A performance poet, unpublished novelist, and former professional wrestler, McGuirt has been hosting Nashville’s popular “Poetry in a Pub” series of open mic readings for over six years.
Joanne Seltzer’s poems have appeared widely in anthologies, such as When I am Old I shall Wear Purple, and in literary journals, such as The Croton Review and Kalliope. She has also published short fiction, literary essays, translations of French Poetry and three poetry chapbooks of her own work.
I don’t know much about New Yorker Paul Weinman, other than the fact that he’s the famed white boy. Cool.
Mary Winters’ work began to appear in publications such as Art:Mag, Black Buzzard Review, Ellipsis Magazine and Potpourri, among others. Winters works as an attorney in a civil legal aid office in Newark, New Jersey. Born in Pittsburgh and raised in Cincinnati, Winters now lives in New York City.

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?

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.