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 21

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

ISSN 1068-5154

me, a child in church with daddy (the sacred scars of his heart), by Dan Landrum Rumor was, daddy was an Easter & Christmas Christian, way back when. I only knew‘m to be a huntin‘n‘fishin‘ pagan. ‘cept this one time, the only time I ever saw daddy in church. (They’d later say the Devil made’m do it!) It was a special service, just for the two of us. We walked briskly through the nave to the altar. “Don’t be a feel,” he whispered, “Don’t hide your pain, feel your feelings!” “You know I grew up without a daddy of my own...” turning the underside of his wrists up at me. “See, son...” I saw a zipper-track of scars transversing a mound the size of a walnut. I ran my tiny fingers over the disfigured flesh. “What’s this, daddy?” “The nerves I cut never grew back together... I have no feeling in this hand.” “Why d’ya do that, daddy?” “I was confused.” “Why?” A sudden change cam over my daddy; his eyes, red hot coals - glowed, his words - hissed, steam from a kettle: “You’re now ready to see, son... that’s why we are here.” He gouged his massive fingers between his ribs, wrenching his manly chest wide open, exposing a bellowing heart. A heart encrusted in dancing scars, the dancing flames of Hell in full technicolor bigger than life!! “See, son.” “Oh my God, daddy, I”m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I cried. I stood for the longest time - stunned, me, a child in church with daddy exposing the sacred scars of his heart... “Daddy, will I too have to live this pain?” “No, sweetheart, you won’t. I won’t let you... You will never be born.” children, churches & daddy, by Alice Olds-Ellington I am not a child. I am over fifty. Daddy treats me like a recalcitrant teen-ager. He finishes me off every dinner hour. what do I think of him? “I can see a church by daylighjt.” It’s the blue eyes which I can’t get over. They look as lush as the sea & when he wants to humor me he uses them in full blasts. children, churchyards & daddies, by Geoff Stevens Sunday & children with daddies visit grandads & grannies stoop beneath lychgate darkness to where sun shines brightly on white stone epitaph. Church bells chime & a child asks what is “RIP” SUMMER IN THE WAREHOUSE, by Michael Estabrook after my son’s typical mediocre freshman year of college mostly Cs a course or 2 dropped incessant questing for easy professors frat pledging & parties and all the rest of that he got a job spent the summer in a warehouse packing boxes loading trucks stacking shelves unpacking boxes unloading trucks unstacking shelves. and whe n he made the honor roll in his sophomore year I said I was proud of him “I guess you’re serious about school now that you’ve made your friends done the silly fraternity thing established yourself found yourself put all that social stuff behind you.” he didn’t pause for even a second “no Dad” he shook his head “that’s not it I’m studying hard now because I spent the entire summer in a warehouse and know what I don’t want to be doing with my life.” IN ONE OF THE LAST DAYS IN HER MOTHER’S HOUSE, by Lyn Lifshin months after I drove up for the funeral that seemed a dress rehearsal. In the kitchen, the calendar her mother marked the days she planted seeds on and when they flowered still hanging. The same window ledges we sat on plotting diets, ways to get some boy who wasn’t a bore to come to the Junior Women’s Club dance or hay ride. “You’re both too smart,” our mothers said, “you scare them.” The same wide maple floors we sprawled on, seeing ourselves in Paris lofts or some Greenwich Village attic where I’d paint and she’d write. Neither of us still live in this New England calendar town we’d trudge through snow in, watch Life Magazine come to shoot the white Congregational Church after a storm, but are back to deal with what’s unravelled. We waited for our periods to begin together, wonder now if what seemed a nuisance like so much - calling home, giving numbers we could be reached at or getting good grades, will like other things that seemed so ordinary, too soon be longed for KENT STATE MAY 1970, by Lyn Lifshin The ROTC building still smoking, the Guard moves in, feet on the new grass. By Monday just afternoon sirens. Blood sinking into the warm ground. Parents pick up phones that burn their hands CHURCHES BECOME THEATERS, by Michael Estabrook at the edge of town an old church with steeple, spire and bell, huge, leaning, lurching like a beached ship’s hull. wooden and white except for the peeling paint and worn-out spots on the stairs and aisles where countless shoes have trod all these years. but the church is no longer a church where people go to pray. it’s a theater now where people go to escape from life in a more entertaining way. THE DAY I VISITED AN OLD BUDDY OF MY DAD’S, by Michael Estabrook Tony looked up from the engine he was working on stared wide-eyed at me. “you look so much like your Dad.” but he hung his head the whole while we talked ashamed it seemed to be still among the living. the martyr and the saint, by Janet Kuypers they gave their daughter the name of the Patron Saint of television and the television’s always been one thing she hated about him or was it the drinking that he needed more than her the business has gone bad I’m a failure I’m not a man he said he respected her then he’d call her a twenty dollar whore from Vegas and the mother would hold the child, the saint, the pure angel hold her ears and hope she couldn’t hear Conversations, a day of grieving, 1/22/94, by Janet Kuypers III my father spoke polish and so did we until one day he decided “we’re in america now, they should speak english” so when he wanted to tell us something he would speak in polish and my mother would translate i’m thirty now, and my father is sick and dying and he can’t undersatnd me he’s here before my eyes and i can’t tell him all the things i wanted to like i love you looking back it seems obvious we never talked like a family we never asked each other how was our day so now when i see him all i can do is hold his hand and show him the emotions on my face i think he still understands Conversations, a day of grieving, 1/22/94, by Janet Kuypers I my father was a good man gentle kind never raised his voice he was an architect one day i went with him on career day he put me in front of a drafting table with paper and crayons i drew all day i thought he had the best job in the world he could sit and draw all day he had everything and he never raised his voice he died when i was fifteen of a heart attack i took classes later in architecture i wanted to understand his love his passion i wanted everything he smoked and ate poorly when he was younger i guess it caught up to him he was going through a divorce then mom wanted it she never even went to his funeral they say it was a heart attack i say it was a broken heart i wish i could have said goodbye father’s tears, by Janet Kuypers I never really knew him. I knew the smell of his workboots from the construction site, I knew the smell of the martinis waiting for him at home. I knew the sound of his walk: his ankles cracking, his keys rattling. I knew the sternness of his voice, and I knew that around me he only smiled for photographs. Emotions had their place for him. He reserved happiness for friends, anger for home. In everything he did and felt he showed strength and power. I’ve seen him cry twice. Once he cut his hand with a saw. I saw fabric four inches thick soaked with blood around his hand. I saw the drops of blood on the car seat. He drove himself to the hospital. He was always in control. But I heard the tears of pain in his voice. I stood in the driveway and cried. Once I heard him arguing with a friend. I heard his voice from the hallway, but I didn’t recognize his voice at all: it sounded confused, weak. Distraught. I walked up to the door, looking through the square window. His voice choked and gasped. The muscles in his face were contorted, and it was as if the wrinkles in his eyebrows cried, “How could you hurt me so? How could you do this to me?” It was as if he screamed at being weak. I moved away from the door before he could see me. But I still heard his voice; I had to run outside. I think I didn’t want to believe that he was human. st. anthony’s medallion, by Janet Kuypers “A father brought his ten year old son to the cemetary where his mother was buried about a month earlier. It began to rain, and lightning struck the boy dead on the scene. It is believed a St. Anthony medallion worn around his neck acted as a conductor.” The sky is weeping again. For me. What have I done, this is my punishment for what? You did this to me, didn’t you, you unfair God? Didn’t I tell them I loved them enough? I went to the school play, remembered our anniversary. How am I supposed to go on now? My wife first, take her from me first, then take the only thing in this world that looks like her. That has her nose. Her chin. Why couldn’t I rip that medallion off him, set him free? Did I not watch him enough? Did I not love them enough? Why wasn’t it me? Why wasn’t it me? Why? my father, shooting an animal, by Janet Kuypers we sat in our dining room, looking out the sliding glass doors onto the patio, the expanse of concrete that led to the pool, fenced away from the ravine. Father had a dislocated shoulder, his arm was in a sling. He had a friend’s shotgun, some sort of instrument and he looked out the window, sister and I behind him, looking over his shoulder. And then he saw a small squirrel, walking along the edge of the patio, and father opened the sliding glass doors propped his gun over his dislocated shoulder, tried to look through the sight and keep the gun balanced. He usually didn’t use guns, he seldom borrowed them. And here he stood, in his own house, aiming at the animal at the edge of our property, with one good arm. And then he shot. We all looked; the animal, hit, stumbled into a nearby hole. He hit the animal, despite all his trouble, all his pain. People wonder why he shot the animal. I wonder how. Could I do it, even with two good arms. Could I see through the sight, could I aim well, strike. untitled, by Paul Weinman Mom wanders her words in cautious attempts at putting faces to events while dad applauds contestants as they answer daytime questions. Did you know that one? She sometimes asks. untitled, by Paul Weinman When we meet to take them out for their 51st mom is so pleased her beautiful boys are all there and we signal to each not to mention who isn’t. I love you all she smiles and dad nods, not hearing. my stepfather tried, by Cheryl Townsend one night of pre-teen budding he pushed one side of the door as I did the other saying you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before and if you do it is time that I did and my confusion poured from my eyes and my gut and my mother was nowhere to dry them daddy, by Cheryl Townsend Even now at 35 I wince when arupting 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 face painting, by Debra Purdy Kong “Come on, kids, let’s get your faces painted!” Grandma’s strong, powerful voice sliced through trees and spread over two exhibits at the Children’s Festival. Her three, five, and seven-year-old grandchildren watched two clowns in baggy pants and polka-dot ties arrange paintbrushes on a table. The children gaped in bewilderment at the smaller clown’s spongy, mauve wig, her huge pink nose, and the turquoise stars surrounding her eyes. “Hurry up,” Grandma urged, “or the other kids will get ahead of you.” The children looked at her pensively. “Too late.” Grandma watched a youngster run up to the table. “You’ll have to wait your turn now.” She turned to her grandchildren. “Well, aren’t you going to get in line?” The boy glanced at her, then looked away as the clowns removed the lids from small pots of paint. While more people gathered, the five-year-old girl reached for her younger sister’s hand. “Go on,” Grandma insisted. “The other children are having their faces painted. Don’t you want to have yours done too?” “No,” the boy answered quietly; his sisters shook their heads. Grandma’s blue eyelids lowered like shields while her pencilled brows rose into the powdered creases of her forehead. “But it’s free and fun,” she argued. “You don’t want to be the only kids with bare faces, do you?” The kids shuffled their feet, then stepped away from her. Ignoring the glances of curious parents, grandma scrutinized her children. “You could at least try,” she stated. Suddenly, their father appeared, smiling. “How’s it going?” “God, you’ve got bloody strange kids,” his mother remarked. “They don’t want to have their faces painted.” The man stared at her, then sighed and turned away. His gaze filled with sympathy for his children who looked at the ground, oblivious to the fun and excitement around them. A small hand reached for his. “Let’s go do something else,” he said gently. Grandma’s teased and sprayed yellow hair didn’t budge in the breeze as she trailed after them. my roots, black&blue for Gator C Ra McGuirt 40-something southern years of moonless nights ago, in a section of miami known and feared by all as bad, feeding on fallen angel notes,&devil gospel chords escaping to heaven, ascending to hell by way of a miniscule window back of house of blues repute, crouched in the dark, a small white boy felt a large&sudden hand form itself out of the shadows & fall on his shoulder like a sack of cement, then a doomful whiskey voice, rough as a dumptruck on African gavel, growlingly inquired of him: “white boy, what the hell you doin’ here? they boy would have flown up to premature glory with wings or without, but the monstrous hand, attached to a man of gravitic immensity, who also possessed a cruel cannibal scowl upon his seamed and knife-scarred face, held him to earth. “i done ast you, boy - what the holy king hell you be doin’?” gulping back his salt hot fear, the boy replied, “i was just listenin’...” “you was just listenin’, huh?” the thunderscowl grew, & the callous-tipped fingers bit tighter. “stand your little white ass up...” the boy obeyed, & shook on short white denim legs, sneakered feet itching to run,&keep running. “just listenin’... is that what you’re telling me, boy?” through lips near as white as his dirty face, the boy said: “y-yessir, that’s right...” “& why you be listenin’, son... tell the truth...” “sir, i’m real sorry... i just like the blues...” “just like the blues! just be listenin’! white boy, you must think i’se some kinda fool you expect me to believe that shit! you can’t hear no goddam blues standin’ way the hell out here! you best come with me... & the man took the boy inside to the blues, where my daddy soon became favored reefer-roller to the band. Just Dust, by Mary Winters When I was five, I knew one night in my bed I was a separate “I” from all of “us” - a different “I” than all the other “I”’s - my son later said the same in writing: “U R U and so I’m me.” I am the oldest of four children, and soon after this insight, my first baby sister was born. Mother took me up with her hor her postpartum check-up - I remember appointments before the birth when I thought her naked stomach looked like a basketball without the black markings. Walking to the doctor’s, I saw a butterfly on the ground - it was dead. I wanted to take it home, it started to crumble: its mouthpiece came off and the patterns on its wings blurred into my palm. Mother helped me wrap it in a tissue, but it was too late: the butterfly was gone. god, by C Ra McGuirt . petition for alien relative, for vanya, by C Ra McGuirt kid, come across the sea. there may be nothing i can teach you except for the dangers of drink and drugs: after all, just take a look at what they’ve done to me. kid, come across the sea. i’m not sure that i can help you but i’ll be glad to introduce you to bruce lee and the batman. kid, come across the sea. i won’t pretend to be anything more than what i am, thought what i am is still unsure: you’ll have to ask your mother. 503, by M. Kettner father: eyes hue of bible leather a good song, though overplayed First Anniversary Blues, by Thomas Kretz Of course the title should have been Kinder, Kirche, KÙche to invoke the chauvinistic feminism current in the small press where there are no mags for men only and a million for just women where at least seventy-five percent of those beings putting it out are non-men and about seventy-five percent of those semi-literate but on the uppermost side of the Chilean escudo who else willing to devote coy spaceless hours and bucks they do not possess in attempts at rising above themselves dragging wordy je-ne-sais-quoi with them? 529, by M. Kettner dust on water/baby with a caul 587, by M. Kettner newborn: compass, change of heading river overflowing its banks elysia’s walk, by C Ra McGuirt for Coby elysia, girl of my village; daughter i lost now & forever not seventeen on this, the day of your brief birth to sixteen years of stolen life, your village begins to walk for you as i, its poet, keep my word to walk for you on darker roads & longer ones. i go alone though never meaning, elysia, to turn my back upon your crowd i walk with them essentially, invisibly, although twice as real as was the cold hard night concrete on which unbalanced terror spilled your precious blood to make this poem. i vow to remember your sixteen years, to count all the years now left to you by god through me. elysia, you came strangely & suddenly in mine through senselessness, & something real inside of me you came to grow, & now you’re home, elysia, so long as i should have a home. it’s strange to think that had we passed in halls we shared apart in time you’d have rolled your eyes at me & scolded my lack of school spirit, just before i rolled my own & stomped off down the hall to write more bittersweet meaningful angry young poems, & to play at my angry young music... who are you, girl of my village? how did you come to be my child? suddenly, i’ve lost desire to tread this paper path alone, within these walls, & in these tears shed solely for my mortal self; elysia, come walk with me, to the start of the dark at the end of the page; i can’t say i truly fear the lesson which may find me there, but you have passed more recently; help me learn. be my school friend in this present school of light, through afternoon, & fall of dusk, beyond, in distant school of night. steamroller/lunch poem, by Brandon Freels with a crooked back, dad rolled down the hill like a madman Ha-ha! he shouted out steamrolling over little children mom wasn’t that far behind Honey! she cried out You forgot your lunch excerpt from the red door of the church at blue mountain lake, by Joanne Seltzer ... The carillion send a message That echoes through the hamlet Sunday is coming You are invited Come as you are On foot By boat By car Come - First appeared in Adirondack Lake Poems, 1985. archetypes, by Joanne Seltzer my Daddy posed like Apollo in the wind my Daddy borrowed a moustache from Clark Gable & also pop-out ears my Daddy was an adventurer 15 years old he ran away to Windsor Canada lied about his age enlisted in the Jewish Legion served as a soldier in Palestine my Daddy conquered the rocks of pharaohs under the hot Saharan sun a bareheaded boy in British uniform stood at the face of the Sphinx of course my Daddy came home to marry Detroit & lost his job in the Great Depression my Daddy loved to bounce & kiss & cuddle me even though he was scolded put her down Sam don’t spoil the baby & I was in the automobile spinning & turning upside down & a broken steering wheel & my Daddy’s head broken & spinning my Daddy died before my 10th month birthday the head of a human was carved in stone but the lion’s body sprouted flowers no one knows the answer to Daddy’s sad riddle about the ages of man - First appeared in Inside Invisible Walls, 1989. “scars”, by Janet Kuypers Like when the Grossman’s German shepherd bit the inside of my knee. I was babysitting two girls and a dog named “Rosco.” I remember being pushed to the floor by the dog, I was on my back, kicking, as this dog was gnawing on my leg, and I remember thinking, “I can’t believe a dog named Rosco is attacking me.” And I was thinking that I had to be strong for those two little girls, who were watching it all. I couldn’t cry. Or when I stepped off Scott’s motorcycle at 2:00 a.m. and burned my calf on the exhaust pipe. I was drunk when he was driving and I was careless when I swung my leg over the back. It didn’t even hurt when I did it, but the next day it blistered and peeled; it looked inhuman. I had to bandage it for weeks. It hurt like hell. When I was little, roller skating in my driveway, and I fell. My parents yelled at me, “Did you crack the sidewalk?” When I was kissing someone, and I scraped my right knee against the wall. Or maybe it was the carpet. When someone asks me what that scar is from, I tell them I fell. Or when I was riding my bicycle and I fell when my front wheel skidded in the gravel. I had to walk home. Blood was dripping from my elbow to my wrist; I remember thinking that the blood looked thick, but that nothing hurt. I sat on the toilet seat cover while my sister cleaned me up. It was a small bathroom. I felt like the walls could have fallen in on me at any time. Years later, and I can still see the dirt under my skin on my elbows. Or when I was five years old and my dad called me an ass-hole because I made a mess in the living room. I didn’t. Like when I scratched my chin when I had the chicken pox. children, churches, and daddies, by Janet Kuypers And the little girl said to me, “I thought only daddys drank beer.” And I found myself trying to make excuses for the can in my hand. I remember being in the church, a guest at a wedding of two people I didn’t know. My date pointed out two little boys walking to their seats in front of us. In little suits and cowboy boots, this is what is central Illinois. And my date said he was sure those boys would grow up to be gay. And the worst part was their father was the coach of the high school football team. I think I laughed, but I hesitated. I remember being in the church, it was Christmas Eve, my date’s family went up for communion, and all I could think was that singing the hymns was hard enough, I don’t know the words, what am I doing here, what am I supposed to do? And I stayed seated, and everyone else slowly walked to the front of the church. Little soldiers in a little line, the little children in their little dresses walking behind their mommies and daddies. And the little girl said, “I thought only daddys drank beer.” And I found myself trying to make excuses. Life Scars, by Alan Catlin I got the first one when I was three, fell off a rock and put a tooth through the inside of my lip. They said it would heal up fine, sort ofRB> go away with time but it didn’t, it left a lump on my lip I can tease with my tongue. They next one came when I was four, mother hit me with the vacuum cleaner above the left eye. The Doctor said: “She must vacuum with a vengeance.” And she did. I fell out of a palm tree when I was six. Woke up in a nightmare of a hospital full of doctors and nurses all dressed up in white gowns and masks, I was not supposed to wake up in. I was sure I was dead and this is what happened to little boys who disobeyed their mothers and afterwards I was dizzy for years and even now looking down from high places is a spinning vortex of bad dreams and hanging knives in the kitchen where I cut my hand for the first time and mother said I didn’t need stitches but when I cut it the second time the doctor was amazed I could still move my hand having severed those tendons in the same place twice and the nerve was half dead and I’d better watch my step or I’d never feel a thing ever again which would have been fine when I cut the tip of my finger half off trying to catch the falling Pyrex mixing glass and mother said I didn’t need it stitched and I still can’t touch anything with that finger because it didn’t heal right, so when I stabbed myself with the paring knife and she said, it was just a superficial cut I king of, smiled real funny like, wiped the spurting blood on her blouse and said: “If you wash it in cold water, the blood will come out.” But, it didn’t and that cut left a long white scar, just like all the others. scar, by Richard King Perkins II Extreme limits of the body Creep forth across a burgundy gleam To find its hewn jagged self Embracing a reawakened lover Where the barest absence Has let the bond knit stronger Than the dissolution Of the most determined of seas, A swollen pink trail of hearts Remaining to mark The dried-out passage of pain. happy first birthday, children, churches and daddies, by Joanne Seltzer When I saw the birth notice I thought, Why not Adults, Synagogues and Mommies? But I sent some stuff anyhow which was published and inspired more stuff which is what Small Press is about: the connection between impulse and gratification.

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.