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in Kuypers’ first poetry book

Hope Chest in the Attic

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Hope Chest in the Attic
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Survival of the Fittest


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Survival of the Fittest
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A Wake-Up Call
From Tradition

This is the 2nd of a 3 volume 2009 set.

A Wake-Up Call From Tradition


the 5.5"x8.5" paperback book: $14.95

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finally, literature for
the snotty and elite (v1)

This is volume 1 of a 2 volume set,
6"x9". Most of this book
is also in the 5.5"x8.5" book.

finally, literature for the snotty and elite


the 6"x9" paperback book: $21.95

Order this writing
in the book

finally, literature for
the snotty and elite (v1)

This is volume 1 of a 2 volume set,
6"x9". Most of this book
is also in the 5.5"x8.5" book.

finally, literature for the snotty and elite


the 6"x9" paperback book: $21.95

Order this writing
in the book

finally, literature for
the snotty and elite

This is the 1st of a 3 volume 2009 set.

finally, literature for the snotty and elite


the 5.5"x8.5" paperback book: $14.95
or as a e-book/PDF file download: $5.95

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in the book

Chapter 38 (v3)
The bonus volume
of the Chapter 38 series
Chatper 38


available as a $13.95 5.5"x8.5" book

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in the collection book

Evolution

available for only 1395
or as a download for only 495
Evolution, 2009
Order this writing in the 2010 book
Taking Poetry to the Streets
of Janet Kuypers poetry read outdoors
and on the streets throughout the United States

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Taking Poetry to the Streets
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uncorrect
of Janet Kuypers poetry read in the 2007 poetry show
and in the 1990s chapbooks “Content With Too Much Light,”
“Politics and Violence,” and “Somebody Say Something”


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uncorrect
father’s tears


I never really knew him.
I knew the smell of his work boots
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.



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