waiting, by Michael Estabrook

that’ll be me
someday
(unless of course I have a
damn coronary or
am run down by a bus)
an old
slow-moving man
white hair
bandy legs and all
way out there
in a waveless ocean
during early
morning low tide the cool
salty water caressing
my dry
wrinkled skin
as I’m waiting
for I don’t
know what
for a mermaid perhaps
or even a
shark.

decorating the lockers, by Janet Kuypers

to Jeff
Days when we sat in the gold gym,
Friday afternoons, hot Indian summer
days. Days with a pep assembly,
there would be a contest, which
grade could cheer the loudest?
Those were the days when the
cheerleaders lead us on in school
spirit, and we wished the football team
luck in the evening’s game. The
cheerleaders even decorated the
lockers for each football player the
night before a game. Streamers. Signs.
I think of this now, one of those
players went professional, moved
across the country, made it big.
Had a friend from high school visit.
And they drove out on a road together;
could they still hear the cheering, the
screaming, faster and faster, down the
road, they’re winning the big game,
faster and faster, then black.
The hero walked away from the twisted
mangled wreck, to find his friend
could’nt hear the cheering. No one
assembles for him now, for the loss
of his friend. Why did the hero get
all the attention?
There was no screaming, just the
low, dull moan in his head as he
ended his own suffering, his own guilt.
And we assembled again once more
for him, this time not on a sunny
Friday afternoon, not anticipating
something. The anticipation is gone.
All we can cling to are the lockers
covered in streamers, the cheering.

In The Lake, by John Binns

In the lake something stirred,
A hand appeared,
The hand gripped a sword
And the sword gleamed in the sun,
On the bank two strangers met,
“Are ye ready?” asked one,
“Aye, I’m ready,” answered the other,
“What is that over there?”
“Why it’s... it’s the Sword of Stephen,
I always thought it was a fable,”
“We must cancel our plans,”
“Aye, cancel the plans.”

last before extinction, by Janet Kuypers

Now he has so many opportunities.
He has nothing to lose. Why not
come out of the wilderness, attack
everything it sees. Kill something.
Suck the blood out, make him feel
alive for once more. Let them try
to restrain him. He has nothing to lose.
And for now it can fly to the highest
redwood, look out over the world.
Despise the world, the world that made
him be alone, leaving him alone. Who
will carry his name? Who will care
for him when he is old? Who can he
read bed time stories to?
Now it can feel death creeping upon
him, closer and closer. He wants to
scream. He calls upon nature; the
tides rise, earthquakes shatter homes.
He does not feel vindicated. He has lost.
And for now she can swim to the deepest
darkest cave in the Pacific, hide from
the solitude, swim lower and lower;
can she find where all of the other
animals of dying species hide, can she
find them. There must be others. They
can understand, they can live together,
at the bottom of the earth. Could they
show their pain for their species, share
what is left of their love, create a new race?
Soon they will be no more
and we will be taking their bones,
reassembling them, studying their
form, rebuilding their lives, revering
them more than we ever did
in life. This is what it all becomes.
This is what it all boils down to.
Study the bones. Study the mistakes.
Study the bones.

my cousin was, by Alan Catlin

the motorcycle
freak, loved
to ride anytime
of day or night in
any kind of weather.
Nothing could
stop him.
Do you remember
that tornado they
had down there
in North Carolina
about 5 or 6 years
ago? I was living down
there then and wasn’t
Davy at my house when
it was just about to
hit. Started cranking
up the old hog said,
“i’ll see you around
babe, gotta fly.”
I tried telling him
ain’t no way you’re
gonna out ride that
storm but he wouldn’t
have listened even if
he’d heard. They found
him in a ditch a day later
more dead than alive,
motorcycle a bunch of
useless metal lucky
to be breathing. Now, he’s
got all this brain
damage and doesn’t seem
to be able to hear or
speak right anymore,
just sits there staring
at the horizon with those
dark, glassy eyes of his
growing darker and more
cloudy with each passing day.

that guy’s my idol and i don’t even know his name (or: my first few hours in belgium), by Michael Estabrook

I flew to Belgium in 1971 then took a train to Louvain to enroll in Medical School and become a doctor. (my one stab at fortune and fame, at making something important of my life; my attempted climb out of the abyss of my middle-class blue-collar upbringing.)
outside the train station in Louvain I’m leaning against a drab cement post waiting for a taxi, trying to look nonchalant, as thought I’ve been here forever, feeling the gray drizzle wet my skin, when another American student strolls by, heading into the station I just came from. he’s whistling and swinging his umbrella: how can he be so happy, so carefree, I wonder? he must have graduated and is bound for home: nope, he shakes his head, “I’ve only been here twenty minutes, but that’s enough for me.” he reaches out his hand, smiling, to shake mine. “good luck,” he winks.
I stare dumfounded down the long long boulevard stretching away before me called Bondgenotenlaan. (Bondgenotenlaan?) I can barely discern the 12th century town hall (a masterpiece of Medieval architecture, so I’m told) far away in the misty distance, in the town’s center. tiny dirty cars whiz by, honking and spewing exhaust, and I’m thinking, “what does he know that I don’t?”
20 years later I understand what he knew - that I should have left right then, with him, turned on my heels and marched back to the airport, head held high, rather than stay there learning Flemish (a very useful tongue) and studying my brains out for the next 2 years, memorizing reams of useless information about blood vessels and bones, sinews and diseases, before leaving, before finally realizing what he realized in only 20 brief minutes in the rain. yup, that guy’s my idol and I don’t even know his name.

Milk Fire, by Greg Evason

I need a beer
I need a greed
I need something more
than this

Roll Your Own Air, by Greg Evason

but it first
borrow a grinder
grinder
attach a tube to the black “Escort”
tamper
tamper down
fill the tube
remove the tube
build a fire
swallow
wait
repeat
repeat
now take a seat
bastard

Too Conscious Of Being Too Conscious Of Being Too Conscious Of Et Cetera Too, by Greg Evason

I inhale deeply
deeply I inhale
deeply inhale I

coal, by Brandon Freels

Mom was picking up coal in the kitchen:
“Don’t you go anywhere young man!” she yelled at me as I was sneaking out the back door with Larry.
“You get your little butt over here and help me clean this mess up!”
I looked over at Lenny
with a face full of guilt... we both bowed our heads and walked into the kitchen... each taking a seat at the wooden dinner table.
Mom put a bowl of coal in front of each of us:
“That’s okay...” Lenny said, pushing the bowl away, “My parents are taking me out tonight!”
“Well,” mom replied, pushing the bowl back, “...you know you really shouldn’t eat restaurant food on an empty stomach!”
Lenny’s face was filled with tension.

her dinner was stuck on the ceiling, by Brandon Freels

Come on man!
she said
get it down, I’m hungry!
I laughed
so we got the chair
off the wall and
tried using it
Damnit...
This isn’t going to work...
I slowly mumbled
to myself
Try standing on one
leg! she said
curiously
balancing a
table on her big
toe and
waving the american flag

You’re Within Me, by Dan Landrum

i stand in awe
in a crowded passageway
i’m the new kid
but you welcome me
you’re in my dreams
i see you naked
tremble in delight
i feel your warmth
but you’re not breathing
you’re in my heart
i’m totally numb
but then again, know
because even now
i’m inside you
you’re within me
inspired from Janet Kuypers’ “you’re with me” and Paul Weinman’s subsequent version, first appearing in cc+d

the hero, by Robert Michael O’Hearn

Hero trundles inconspicuously
towards missionary goals.
Undoubtedly conscientious
The hero continues braving
any wayward praises.

where the turquoise ring has fallen, by Richard King Perkins II

Before the first breeze of day finds itself,
I journey forth to cleanse and scour
The earth with my metal detector.
Sweeping across the primeval grounds
Of Chicago’s west side,
A halfling, cinnamon-skinned girl
Follows me through yards
On gawky flamingo struts,
Scouting my progress only for her
Own satisfaction.
When, after a few phantom blips,
I uncover a tarnished turquoise ring,
She tells me her gramma had given her
The ring long ago and she’s buried
It then, but couldn’t recall just where.
Soon, she’s trailing me around
With an oversized ring on her thumb,
A pocketful of assorted change,
An old thimble, and L.B.J. campaign button.
She lets me keep the beer-tabs,
Rusty nail, and four tiny batteries
Which she says are spent cartridges
Of the bullets that had killed her friend,
Junie, in the front yard last summer.
Later, as I pack up to leave,
And the wind recovers its name,
She asks me if my finding machine
Can bring people back from out
Of the ground too -
Just as easy as coins
And jewelry and shells.

weekend, by Geoff Stevens

Down the deep dust-road
a figure walks, always
the same distance away
Time now for thinking
the landscape is stilled
no rattan of industry
the view from the balcony
peaceful and calm
the weather is temperate
the sun yellows the hills
greens them with shadow
The lawns of the houses
are brown with proximity
mountains become blue
with horizon viewed mystery
I have awaited this weekend
Now here in tranquility
the air full of expectancy
there is little to think about
A cabbage white butterfly
flitters across the picture
my window of peacefulness
an oasis of beauty
framed by Friday and Monday

coincidental demise, by Cheryl Townsend

Just because he did
the exact same thing
to 5 other women and
this one was found the
exact same way after
she was last seen with
him doesn’t mean he
did it cried the judicial
system that let him go
and ooops the exact same
thing happened again

daddy, by Cheryl Townsend

Even now at 35 I wince when
erupting anger flashbacks you
lunging steel beam hands that
sounded like popping balloons
against my red Shirley Temple curls
they were such big hands the kind that
could hug a child completely but never did
I was terrified when the darkness gave no
warning I only remember hurting and in my
young confusion wondering why nothing I did
was ever good enough I was always the little
bitch who told when really my flesh screamed
your faults to the world hiding in gym class to
avoid questioning innocence or inquisitive
intentions my mother was just a whiff of
Moondrops as she shut the door like lacing
up a straight jacket trapped and I would
cry to Jesus just as quiet as I could please
make somebody love me fighting self pity today
that no one ever did and before I can catch
the reality at hand the tears already give
evidence no matter how many years or miles
away from you I get you’re still abusing
the need of a child

Young Wizard, by Mary Winters

Darling son is vacation house Merlin, Jesus, magical
Horn of Plenty, patron saint of smallish creatures
undesirable, impossible vocation in the city, rabid rats
and scrofulous pigeons his only objects there)...
A bounty of seeds falls from his fingers, two kinds,
for birds, hundreds of them, jostling and bickering;
squirrels, scores; chipmunks, probably dozens; plus
who knows what else is feasting in the dark -
son’s magic such that seeds left uneaten would grow
to fantastic plants: Jack’s beanstalk to heaven,
Venus’s-flytraps, giant kelp, and rarest of orchids.

Farm Outing, by Mary Winters

Too hot, too sunny, that autumn day -
fled the glare-shot city, for New Jersey
family outing to an apple picking farm.
First downcast by acres of parking lot
then saw wagonloads of sated pickers
lurching back, bags and pockets crammed.
You crammed yours, too; son used string
to verify absolute biggest pumpkin,
ate all you could hold right there
the heck with pesticides;
the day’s motif: pride and greed,
and hold the apology.
Farm owners’ avarice was sated too -
their last day open to the public
next a long and private winter’s nap;
heard exhaustion, and disgust
beneath their cheerful spiels.
Favorite moment: you imagined you three
an English peasant family, the Middle Ages,
walking home from your fields at dusk
to your tiny stone-clad cottage under oaks
when you were still the village witches...

fish, by Janet Kuypers

It’s a pretty miraculous thing, I suppose, making the transition from being a fish to being a human being. The first thing I should do is go about explaining how I made the transition, the second thing, attempting to explain why. It has been so long since I made the decision to change and since I have actually assumed the role of a human that it may be hard to explain.
Before my role in human civilization, I was a beta - otherwise known as a Japanese fighting fish. Although we generally have a beautiful purple-blue hue, most people familiar with different species of fish thought of us as more expensive goldfish. I was kept in a round bowl, about eight inches wide at it’s longest point (in human terms, that would be living in quarters about 25 feet at the widest point). It may seem large enough to live, but keep in mind that as humans, you not only have the choice of a larger home, but you are also able to leave your living quarters at any point in time. I did not have that luxury. In fact, what I had was a very small glass apartment, not well kept by my owners (and I at that point was unable to care for it myself). I had a view of the outside world, but it was a distorted view. And I thought I could never experience that world first-hand.
Previous to living anywhere else, before I was purchased, I resided in a very small bowl - no longer than three inches at the widest point. Living in what humans would consider an eight foot square, I had difficulty moving. I even had a hard time breathing. Needless to say from then on I felt I needed more space, I needed to be on my own. No matter what, that was what I needed.
I lived in the said bowl alone. There was one plastic tree in the center of my quarters - some algae grew on it, but that was all I had for plant life in my space. The bottom of my quarters was filled with small rocks and clear marbles. It was uneventful.
Once they put another beta in my quarters with me - wait, I must correct myself. I thought the put another beta there with me. I must explain, but please do not laugh: I only came to learn at a later point, a point after I was a human, that my owner had actually placed my quarters next to a mirror. I thought another fish was there with me, following my every motion, getting angry when I got angry, never leaving me alone, always taking the same moves as I did. I raced back and forth across my quarters, always staring at the “other” fish, always prepared to fight it. But I never did.
Once I was kept in an aquarium for a short period of time. It was a ten-gallon tank, and I was placed in there with other fish of varying species, mostly smaller. I was the only beta there. There were different colored rocks, and there were more plastic plants. And one of the outside walls was colored a bright shade of blue - I later came to discover that it was paper behind the glass wall. Beyond the other fish, there was no substantial difference in my quarters.
But my interactions with the other fish is what made the time there more interesting. I wanted to be alone most of the time - that is the way I felt the most comfortable. I felt the other fish didn’t look like me, and I often felt that they were specifically out to hamper me from any happiness. You have to understand that we are by nature very predatorial - we want our space, we want dominance over others, we want others to fear us. It is survival of the fittest when it comes to our lives. Eat or be eaten.
I stayed to myself most of the time in the aquarium; I occasionally made shows of strength to gain respect from the other fish. It made getting food from the top of the tank easier when no one tempted to fight me for the food. It was lonely, I suppose, but I survived - and I did so with better luck than most of the others there.
Then one day it appeared. First closed off to the rest of us by some sort of plastic for a while, then eventually the plastic walls were taken away and it was there. Another beta was suddenly in my space. My space. This was my home, I had proven myself there. I was the only fish of my kind there, and now there was this other fish I would have to prove myself to. Eat or be eaten. I had to make sure - and make sure right away - that this other fish would never be a problem for me.
But the thing was, I knew that the other fish had no right to be there. I didn’t know how they got there, what those plastic walls were, or why they were there. But I had to stop them. This fish was suddenly my worst enemy.
It didn’t take long before we fought. It was a difficult battle, all of the other fish got out of the way, and we darted from one end of the aquarium to the other. It wasn’t long until I was given the opportunity to strike. I killed the other beta, its blood flowing into my air. Everyone there was breathing the blood of my victory.
Almost immediately I was removed from the aquarium and placed in my other dwelling - the bowl. From then on I knew there had to be a way to get out of those quarters, no matter what I had to do.
I looked around at the owner; I saw them walking around the tank. I knew that they did not breathe water, and this confused me, but I learned that the first thing I had to do was learn to breathe what they did.
It didn’t take much time before I was constantly trying to lift my head up out of the bowl for as long as I could. I would manage to stay there usually because I was holding my breath. But then, one time, I went up to the top in the morning, they way I usually did, and without even thinking about it, I just started to breathe. I was able to keep my full head up out of the water for as long as I wanted and listen to what was going on outside my living quarters.
Everything sounded so different. There were so many sharp noises. They hurt me to listen to them. Looking back, I now understand that the water in my tank muffled any outside noises. But beyond that, no one in my living quarters made noise - no one bumped into things, no one screamed or made noises. But at the time, all these noises were extremely loud.
I then knew I had to keep my head above water as much as possible and try to make sense of the sounds I continually heard. I came to discover what humans refer to as language only through listening to the repeated use of these loud sounds.
When I learned I had to breathe, I did. When I understood that I had to figure out their language, I did. It took so long, but I began to understand what they said. Then I had to learn to speak. I tried to practice under the water, in my dwelling, but it was so hard to hear in my quarters that I never knew if I was doing it correctly. Furthermore, I had become so accustomed to breathing air instead of water that I began to have difficulty breathing in my old home. This filled me with an intense fear. If I continue on with this experiment, I thought, will my own home become uninhabitable to me? Will I die here because I learned too much?
I decided that I had no choice and that I had to as my owner for help. I had to hope that my ability to produce sounds - and the correct ones, at that - would be enough to let them know that I am in trouble. Furthermore, I had to hope that my owner would actually want to help me. Maybe they wouldn’t want me invading their space. Eat or be eaten.
But I had to take the chance. One morning, before I received my daily food, I pulled the upper half of my body from the tank. My owner wasn’t coming yet, so I went back down and jumped up again. Still nothing. I kept jumping, until I jumped out of the tank completely. I landed on the table, fell to the floor, coughing. I screamed.
The next thing I remember (and you have to forgive me, because my memory is weak here, and this was seven years ago) is being in a hospital. I didn’t know what it was then, of course, and it frightened me. Doctors kept me in place and began to study me. They sent me to schools. And to this day I am still learning.
I have discovered one thing about humans during my life as one. With all the new space I have available to me, with all of the other opportunities I have, I see that people still fight each other for their space. They kill. They steal. They do not breathe in the blood, but it is all around them. And I still find myself doing it as well, fighting others to stay alive.

watermelon reincarnation, by Larry Blazek

Can’t say I miss you
much, me dear
in fact, I’m glad
you’re not around
you see, you died
four flesh was
getting high
so I put you
in the ground
I put you in the garden
where the watermelons grow
and I wonder whilst
I spit out the seeds
Am I spitting out your soul?

paranoia, by Janet Kuypers

we sit here at dinner.
I try to breathe.
My hands rest on my thighs.
I must watch to be sure,
everything must be right:
the silverware, small fork,
large fork, plate, knife,
large spoon, small spoon.
Water glass. Wine glass.
I know no one else sees them:
the fish, the red fish, in
the curtains along the wall.
You have to watch them.
My eyes always glance there.
They are evil fish. They sit
in the curtains, they wait,
and then they come out.
And the yogurt, the yogurt
is the only thing that can
save me from them. throw
the yogurt, take a spoon,
use your hands. Anything.
And we sat there before
dinner, and he ate his
yogurt with his first spoon
before I could stop him.
How could you do this? How
can you save yourself from
the evil fish now? Will
I have to save you again,
do you even understand
the danger

my love for you will stay the same (a song), by Janet Kuypers

everybody’s dreaming
everybody’s screaming
everybody’s looking for some shelter from the storm
and everybody’s looking for someone to keep them warm
but I don’t wanna play if you’re a temporary game
my love for you will stay the same
my love for you will stay the same
(my love for you)
now the tide is turning
the fire embers burning
everybody wants to find a way to shed the shame
everybody wants to find a way to share the blame
but you can put me through the heartache, I can take the pain
my love for you will stay the same
my love for you will stay the same
(my love for you)
the rhythm in your fingers
the memory still lingers
listen to your flowers now, the petals scream out loud
and all these seasons come and go without a single sound
i can hear the flower petals calling out your name
my love for you will stay the same
my love for you will stay the same
(my love for you)

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.