Dusty Dog Reviews
The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious.

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 18

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

ISSN 1068-5154

cover

Tales, by Deloris Selinky

Tere are all
kinds of tales.
Glad and sad.
Real and fables.
Tales set to music,
highlighted in color,
and by pictures
to make them
recognizable.
Sometimes
these tales arrive
as presents
in wrapping paper,
tied with ribbon
and a bow.


two for ringside, by C Ra McGuirt

i hadn’t been to the matches since i stepped out of the ring
washed off the makeup for good, & went back to only a poet
by i’d promised my vanya to take us sometime,
& last night, we finally made it.
the dystrophic to my right remembered me, & smiled like hell:
“y-yeah! yeah! l-luscious leslie!”
we laughed shoptalk all card long:
he knew his theatre well...
before the official carnage commenced,
they played the rocket’s red glare
& i stood with my hand on my cynical heart,
proud to be an american artist
at the blue collar ballet
with the heart of my stepson from russia
beating excited beside me.
everyone’s work was excellent,
the referree expertly blind.
i saw a few moves that i hadn’t before,
& it made me ache to break gravity,
trade some pain to sell the marks
on our status as demons and demigods...
too bad my time and back are gone.
vanya climbed my knee to see
the devastation just beyond
the inevitable fat old woman,
& i held him up through 10 matches,
discounting beer & bathroom breaks.
the pain was small; the joy immense,
& in the midst, a thought:
if god were great, i’d still be working
& my child could watch me fly...
but that night, god
was only good.


beneath the evening shroud, by Richard King Perkins II

This is a rare occurance, the weatherperson confesses -
But not without precedent. Four powdery inches of
Snow in late October and already the heaters are
Churning as if it’s the lull time between Christmas and
The new year. Like bulky afghans draped over the
Back of the living room couch, my daughter and I
Gaze outside through a crystalline-edged window -
Listening intently as every snowflake regathers in
Unique formation, each with a new story to tell.
As a dormant soil, the entire world lies open before us,
And voices tremble with an ordinary and mystical hush.
Our home is grown warm with conversation, and like
Flowers at dusk, my child’s eyes begin to slump, closing
Upon their shallow reservoirs.
She wakens slightly as I cradle her guileless form,
Carrying my small love up the stairs to be lain in the
Crumbled liquid of her bed. For the barest moment,
We exist in that deeper place, looking at one another
So that we ache with an unconcealable euphony. This
Will become a tim in years to pass, that each of us
Will not fail to remember. I ask her if she’d like me to
Read the old story about the puppet, the lantern, and
The moth. She says no, not tonight, because the world,
You know, is already too filled with stories.
I turn off the light, our long shadows disappear and
We are together in a patchwork slip of moonlight.
This is the beginning of a new story which I cannot tell
Her because she is already breathing slowly, and
Unlike the snow plow rumbling past just now, is
Grappling with a cloaked essential, flapping like an
Angel in drifted snow, deeply, deeply at rest.


Southern baptist, by Mike Lazarchuk

Jensen had 1 moss green tooth
Off left top of his mouth
Could spit tobacco juice
2 neat bullets flying out
A few yards claimed he could land
Each brown slug on a quarter
Put 50 cents out in his
Chicken shit yard stand on the
Porch & land his drool right
On those damn yankee Washingtons
Jensen grew 5 acres of sad peanuts
Okra & greens in south Georgia
The last holdout against the
Corporation’s industrial obsession
Got caught in a court order filed by
a couple of smooth from Atlanta
Lost it all signing over those acres
His bib overall pride beginning to wither
Watching that stark black car
From the city hauling his life away
72 years worth of nothing left standing on
That rickety rocking chair porch swaying
Back & forth like a ratty Georgia pine
Bellowing & blabbering to his Baptist Jesus
Jensen’s clod-hoppers splattered with guts
Red-Boy Jensen’s faithful to the end hound dog
Blown apart red blood mixing
With red Georgia blood
Jensen cradling the old squirrel killing shotgun
Eyes to the sky barrel under his chin babbling
Jesus O Jesus we’s comin’ home


performance poet, by Wayne Hogan

She was a performance
poet. She carried a white
rooster on her left shoulder
and recited the Gettysburg
Address from large cue cards
held just off stage. The r
ooster
would tighten its grip ever so
slightly to let the poet know
when she was through, then
the rooster would flap down onto
the floor. The rooster would
leave grip-marks on the
poet’s left shoulder.


shelley’s love song, by Harold Fleming

Why didn’t you scream? Instead you let his dark
fingers develop rings around your neck,
strings of affection that you knew were not
somebody wanting you; yet, desire
held to you all that week. You were not
someone pulled on by a mother’s apron.
Love me, love me, cried the Hungarian musicbox
you always felt you could turn on or off.
Piano outside your bedroom black reminder.
Bathroom off your hallway, white reminder.
No contest: body for five nights wild
now moved on wobbly footsteps of a child.
Meanwhile, the pressure on your throat increased.
Fingers bit flesh, and nails held on like teeth.


A J.B. Scott’s Dream, by Alan Catlin

It was is if I had been here before,
the closed-in airless feeling of hot,
sweating bodies, smoking each other’s
cigarettes, recycling all the dead still air
and the waitress is wearing a T-shirt
that says lover boy and she has the look
in her eye that says don’t even try,
wise guy and there’s a Stones tape on
the closed circuit tv which brings me
back all the way to a college bar and I’m drinking
double Vodka Sours in the dark corner
of the bar where the bowling machines
cling and clang all night and none
of my friends ever come here because
they can’t stand the noise and she’s
saying: “I don’t care, I’m into
the silent spaces between the notes.”
which is really kind of weird for her
but also kind of all right too, she likes it
weird, lays her hand on my knee,
leans forward in the dark barroom,
so close I can see the thin white scars
on her forehead beneath the thick blonde
hair and she’s saying: “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue.”
but she can’t find it on the juke box
all selector so I settle for Too Much
of Nothing because it’s by Dylan too
and it’s how I feel most of the time
these days and that’s why I don’t care
that I’m drinking Double Vodka because
pretty soon, I’ll be sick and drunk
and nothing will matter and if I’m lucky
I might even pass out and I’m singing
along with the words and she says:
“I thought you were into silences?”
and I’m saying: “Oh, that’s true, I am but
sometimes I like to fool myself into
thinking I might be alive.” and now she’s
saying that she had to make love to me because
she’d never met anyone so intensely bizarre
as I was and I must be Oh, wow, like
surreal in bed and I’m telling her that
it was true, all my lady friends call me
the Mad Russian and some even say there
oughta be a law against my coming around
and in some places I hear maybe there is.
I order one more double Smirnoff Silver
neat while she’s powdering her nose or
whatever it is a woman does in the bathroom
when she wants a man to wait and I’m
punching in All Along the Watchtower
on the selector and I’m losing control
because I really don’t like hard whiskey
or fast women but the two run in pairs and
I’m always in bars, on one side or the other,
and she’s got these long, thin fingernails
that leave scars on your back and it’ll
hurt all night whenever I look at her staring out
into the long, dead silences between love
screams and I wonder what spaces there are
in her I was supposed to fill but I get no
answers and then, there I was again in
Scott’s and everyone is sitting on the bar
as if they are squeezed into the back room of
the courthouse for The Trial and they are
stamping their feet on the bar stools
looking out into the smoke and the haze and
Jim Carroll is singing about All Those People
Who Died and no one can remember the words
to this song except a crazy blonde with
razor fine hair and I wonder if she still
kisses like a snake, if she still loves
to draw blood from your bones and if she’s
always gone in the morning whenever I wake up.


Tzara & Blake, by Alan Britt

Tristan Tzara & William Blake
converse on a park bench. They watch
many individuals pass by. One after
another people march by... their lives
framed... portraits of logic.
A child skips by.
Already the bars of womanhood are
beginning to cover her face. She stamps
her foot at a mysterious bug... then
delights at the green and purple wings
of a dragonfly. The dragonfly’s eyes
revolve like planets.
Tzara & Blake continue
to discuss the ironies of Swedenborg,
angels & dragonflies. Briefly into
the sunshine steps a man with a
distorted face. “Another marked face,”
says Blake. “That which destroyed
his face created Dada,” adds Tzara.
Their conversation
continues. Among their subjects Rene
Char & Miguel Hernandez. Other plans
are made. After lunch they intend
to study the undersides of various
leaves that have fallen into a nearby
pond.


The mound known as the mind, by John Binns

Archibald learned late but learned well,
Heaven and Hell, he found, were in the mound
Known as the mind and kind
Is he who has the wherewithal,
the rest must sink.


downed, by Paul Weinman

A dark-feathered grebe floats low
in the water watching my cautious
movement along the shore.
I look down as my foot steps
brittle into beach leaves
brown and she has dived down.
I wait but cannot see
where she reappears
- the trees rim the lake
and there is no picking
her neck from the gray.
Waking a slight path someone
has made from the road
I remember myself sitting
in the corner of our being
together. When I wouldn’t
talk or try to find.
The pine needles are wet
and soft under feet.
They lead to rocks slapped
with waves of early winter.
I look in water at a dark
face - a jagged reflection
and I know I have dived down, too.


dive, by Janet Kuypers

The water has always called
to me. I had to go, I know
you don’t understand, but
it was the end for me.
You stand on the edges
of the cliff, waiting, hoping,
but I’m gone. I left.
I was gone before I dove into the
murky water.
The pain that was inside
me is now in the water. The
tides are now stronger. They
will pull the next one in with
even more power. It may be you.
The birds are chirping in the
trees. A car will soon drive
by on the road not far from
your path. Life will go on,
even without me. My spirit was
here, in the water, before I left.
I had to go. Try to understand.


a survivor said, by Cheryl Townsend

she caught just a glimpse
of the knife reflecting
the full moon’s glow
before it was against her
throat and pressing hard
like his hand already
upon her breast day-long
alcohol smelled like death
as he dictated his intentions


Sad Spring of the Superior, by Mary Winters

They are without hope - they have come to terms with that;
they find it a reason for their own kind of thriving.
spring is hateful, pressuring them to enthusiasm;
it is unfairly coercive, tactless.
Spring eschews discernment, it is unsubtle,
it is too fecund, it is gross, they often say.
Anyone can enjoy spring; therefore, it is worthless.
When the stunted tree in a dark courtyard
sprouts three new leaves which immediately shrivel:
here, perhaps, spring is moving, deliciously sad -
perhaps, a delicate symbol for fleeting love.
Otherwise, spring is thoughtless, unnuanced.
Spring is barbaric; it cannot be shut up
like the screamiest opera these elite ever heard.
It is spiteful, loading trees with white blossoms
which look like snow - they so much wish it were.
Its scale is anti-human; it is simply too big
like a particularly daunting skyscraper.
Spring refuses mystery, it is about light,
when all that is interesting happens in darkness.
Nothing can really hold up in bright sunlight.


Janet Kuypers:

Stalker
“The Final Pages of Fear”

And she got out of her car, walked across her driveway, and walked up the stairs to her porch, trying to enjoy her solitude, trying not to remember that he had followed her once again. She thought she was free of him; she thought he moved on with his life and that she would not have to see his face again.
Why did he have to call her, on this one particular day, years later, while she was at work? Maybe if she could have been suspecting it, she might have been braced for it. But then again, she didn’t want to think about it: she was happy that she was finally starting to feel as if she had control of her life again.
It had been so many years, why would she have expected him to follow her again? Didn’t she make it clear years ago that she didn’t want him waiting outside her house in his car anymore, that she didn’t want to receive the hang-up calls at three in the morning anymore? Or the calls in the middle of the night, when he’d stay on the line, when she could tell that he was high, and he’d profess his love to her? Or the letters, or the threats? No, the police couldn’t do anything until he took action, when it was too late. Why did he come back? Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Why couldn’t it be illegal for someone to fill her with fear for years, to make her dread being in her house alone, to make her wonder if her feeling that she was being followed wasn’t real?
All these thoughts rushed through her head as she sat on her front porch swing, opening her mail. One bill, one piece of junk mail, one survey.
It was only a phone call, she had to keep thinking to herself. He may never call again. She had no idea where he was even calling from. For all she knew, he could have been on the other side of the country. It was only a phone call.
And then everything started to go wrong in her mind again, the bushes around the corner of her house were rustling a little too loud, there were too many cars that sounded like they were stopping near her house. Her own breathing even scared her.
I could go into the house, she thought, but she knew that she could be filled with fear there, too. Would the phone ring? Would there be a knock on the door? Or would he even bother with a knock, would he just break a window, let himself in, cut the phone lines so she wouldn’t stand a chance?
No, she knew better. She knew she had to stay outside, that she couldn’t let this fear take a hold of her again. And so she sat.
She looked at her phone bill again.
She heard the creak of the porch swing.
She swore she heard someone else breathing.
No, she wouldn’t look up from her bill, because she knew no one was there.
Then he spoke.
“Hi.”
She looked up. He was standing right at the base of her stairs, not six feet away from her.
“What are you doing on my property?”
“Oh, come on, you used to not hate me so much.” He lit a cigarette, a marlboro red, with a match. “So, why wouldn’t you take my call today?”
“Why would I? What do I have to say to you?”
“You’re really making a bigger deal out of this than it is,” he said, then took a drag. She watched the smoke come out of his mouth as he spoke. “We used to have it good.”
She got up, and walked toward him. She was surprised; in her own mind she never thought she’d actually be able to walk closer to him, she always thought she’d be running away. She stood at the top of the stairs.
“Can I have a smoke?”
“Sure,” he said, and he reached up to hand her the fire stick. She reached out for the matches.
“I’ll light it.”
She put the match to the end of the paper and leaves, watched it turn orange. She didn’t want this cigarette. She needed to look more calm. Calm. Just be calm.
She remained at the top of the stairs, and he stood only six stairs below her. She sat at the top stair.
“You really think we ever got along?”
“Sure. I mean, I don’t know how you got in your head -”
“Do you think I enjoyed finding your car outside my house all the time? Did I enjoy seeing you at the same bars I was at, watching my and my friends, like you were recording their faces into your memory forever? Do you think I liked you coming to bother me when I was working at the store? Do you -”
“I was.”
She paused. “You were what?”
“I was logging everyone you were with into my head.”
She sat silent.
“At the bars - I remember every face. I remember every one of them. I had to, you see, I had to know who was trying to take you away. I needed to know who they were.”
She sat still, she couldn’t blink, she stared at him, it was just as she was afraid it would be.
And all these years she begged him to stop, but nothing changed.
She couldn’t take it all anymore.
She put out her right hand, not knowing exactly what she’d do if she held his hand. He put his left hand in hers.
“You know,” she said, then paused for a drag of the red fire, “This state would consider what you did to me years ago stalking.”
She held his hand tighter, holding his fingers together. She could feel her lungs moving her up and down. He didn’t even hear her; he was fixated on looking at his hand in hers, until she caught his eyes with her own and then they stared, past the iris, the pupil, until they burned holes into each other’s heads with their stare.
“And you know,” she said, as she lifted her cigarette, “I do too.”
Then she quickly moved the cigarette toward their hands together, and put it out in the top of his hand.
He screamed. Grabbed his hand. Bent over. Pressed harder. Swore. Yelled.
She stood. Her voice suddenly changed.
“Now, I’m going to say this once, and I won’t say it again. I want you off my property. I want you out of my life. I swear to God, if you come within fifty feet of me or anything related to me or anything the belongs to me, I’ll get a court order, I’ll get a gun, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you away forever.”
“Now go.”
He held his left hand with his right, the fingers on his right hand purple from the pressure he was using on the open sore. He moaned while she spoke. She stood at the top of the stairs looking down on him. He slowly walked away.
She thought for a moment she had truly taken her life back. She looked down. Clenched in the fist in her left hand was the cigarette she just put out.


Why Airplane Travel Delights, by Mary Winters

It’s the death (spectacular crashes) and it’s the sex
(those ads, and your own naughty experiences aloft);
it’s the big okay to drinking during the day
it’s that glorious sense of forward momentum
you never feel at home; it’s the cheerful
wolfish knowing of airline staff: what goes up
must come down, and probably in one piece - hey, ho
it’s either the baggage claim area for you or
that nondemoninational chapel for your family.
It’s the lore overheard, it’s a tight-fitting uniform
it’s that oh-so-juicy temptation: you’re never coming back.
It’s get there or die - and what a death, a death to dream
about, to hope for, to pray for: twenty seconds foreknowledge
at 35,000 feet, and then, so quick, it’s over...
heaven, of course, being reading alone in first class
with just the right amount of Chardonnay...


again and again,
by Cheryl Townsend

again and again
it’s not as easy as it seems
She listened
to the never agains
with a distance
unmeasured
his hollowed promises
falling in that void
somewhere in between


untitled, by Paul Weinman

Mom puts her hand
of splotch-marked sticks
to her face, tries
adjusting the streaks
of rosy paste that
stripe slow rivulets
of thickness as she
fumbles to remember my
name.


J’Reviens, by Janet Kuypers

It’s harder to find the
eye shadow I have
always used. And my
favorite cologne -
J’Reviens - was that it?
Yes, it was. I wish I was
as beautiful now as
I was then. Son, you
don’t understand.


guilt, by Al Rogovin

Guilt crawls behind
my eyes on the job
while I guard
the construction site,
listen to the generator
churn
and do my time.
Tonight I can’t forgive myself
for killing and murdering
or cheating
On my way back home
the sun rises gray
from the wrong direction
as worms crawl onto wet and shiny
morning pavement
for good guiltless sex
to die this
Ford F-150 death.

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.