By Janet Kvammen

Hello everyone!

Welcome to our June 2013 newsletter

packed full of upcoming RCLAS events.

A bright cheerful cover to herald the

coming of the summer solstice sending

with it many happy wishes for a

FABULOUS, SAFE and FUN summer

2013!

We are delighted to be able to share some

of our Write On! Contest Honorable

Mentions in this issue.

Exciting news for Summer 2013!

“Poetry in the Park” is back in New

Westminster every Wednesday evening

6:30pm - 8:30pm @ The Queen’s Park

Bandshell starting July 3 thru Aug 28. If it

rains we can move into the Arts Council

Gallery nearby at Centennial Lodge close

to the bandshell.

Poetic Justice will be closed from June 30

to the end of August. We will be back in

September. Thanks to Franci Louann for

doing an awesome job and to all are

regular hosts and open mic participants.

Congratulations to everyone for making it

a great success.

Our next newsletter will be in September.

I have saved a few more of the excellent

contest honorable mentions to share with

you at that time.

Welcome to all our new members! If you

are a member of RCLAS and would like to

write an article or a book review for an

upcoming newsletter – an RCLAS

Member reviewing the work of another

RCLAS member would be interesting.

Please email me with your ideas. Perhaps

an eerie story, article or tribute to a

favourite Dead Poet for a Special

Halloween October issue? Thank you for

your support. Spread the word about us.

Have a great day!

Best,

Janet Kvammen Royal City Literary Arts Society Director Email – janetkvammen@rclas.com Website - www.rclas.com

Janet’s

Journal

Upcoming RCLAS Events Art Inspired by The Poetry of Candice James Art Show - Exhibit Opening Reception Location: Place des Arts 1120 Brunette Avenue Coquitlam, BC Date: Thursday June 6, 2013 Time: 7PM – 9PM Show runs June 6 – 28th, 2013 Featuring the artwork by the students of artist, Don Portelance. New West Artists present Visual Verse 2013 Opening Reception Location: The Network Hub New Westminster Campus River Market 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Opening Reception: June 7, 2013 Time: 6PM -8PM http://newwestartists.com The art show worth a thousand words runs from June 7 – July 3, 2013, Network Hub office hours. 2013 Visual Verse Artist and Poet Match Up 1. Richard Armstrong // Mohenjo-daro by Eileen Kernaghan 2. Katie Boughen // Into The Light by Donna Ross 3. Tony Bryant // Navigation By The Night Sky by Gavin Hainsworth 4. Sharon Bettker // Escape To Eden by Lilija Valis 5. Judith Copland // Silver Thaw by Mary Duffy 6. Dale Costanzo // Gift by Mary Duffy 7. Alicja Draganska // Prodding by Manolis Aligizakis 8. Anthony Hollenstein // Between Earth and Sky by Janet Kvammen 9. Amanda Ivings // Blue by Lilija Valis 10. Robert Jost // Chorus by Donna Ross 11. Kay Klyne // Together by Ashok Bhargava 12. Richard Klyne // Meditation is Key by Jo Martinez

13. Janet Kvammen // High Diver of Mazatlan by Bernice Lever 14. Irene Lacharite // Pink Eyeshadow by Angel Edwards 15. Monique Lum // Whispers by Ashok Bhargava 16. MAC 1 // Check Mate Mouse by Gary Redmond 17. MAC 2 // The Colours of the Quay by Franci Louann 18. MAC 3 // Sitting In A Field Of Dandelions by Jo Martinez 19. Carolyn McLaughlin // Under The Wild Pepper Tree by Ruth Kozak 20. Valerie McRae // Marble and Frost by Candice James 21. Carole Millar // Perfection by Donna Ross 22. Andre Minardi // Working My Garden of Eden by Gary Redmond 23. Teresa Morton // In The Stars by Janet Kvammen 24. Peri-Laine Nilan // The Road Goes On by Melissa Nilan 25. Elena Perelman // The Garden by Ruth Kozak 26. Don Portelance // We All Must Fall by Janet Kvammen 27. James Price // Gown by Manolis Aligizakis 28. Sally Reesman // Ascent by Mary Duffy 29. Shelley Rothenburger // The Throne Room by Alan Hill 30. Wendy Schmidt // Tug by Bernice Lever 31. Julia Schoennagel // Avalon by Lilija Valis 32. Gillian Wright // Morning Over The Fraser by Franci Louann 33. Elena Zhukova // Dance (Villanelle) by Eileen Kernaghan 34. Lavana LaBrey // Re-Romancing To Amuse A Muse by Gavin Hainsworth 35. Sandra White // Cool Water Piano Keys by Candice James 36. Cliff Blank // Shore Bound Stranger by Candice James 37. Omanie Elias // The UnBalancing Act by Alan Hill 38. Oksana Slonevskaya // View by Manolis Aligizakis 39. Sheila West // The Chalice Well, Glastonbury by Eileen Kernaghan 40. Penny Lim // Let There Be Poetry by Ruth Kozak 41. Solveig Brickenden // Celestial Treat by Ashok Bhargava

Visual Verse: A Celebration of Poetry and Art Location: The Network Hub New Westminster Campus River Market 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Date: Friday June 28, 2013 Time: 6PM - 8PM A wonderful evening showcasing poets featured in the New West Artists Visual Verse exhibit. Poetry will be read while surrounded by the art inspired by their words. Sponsored by Royal City Literary Arts Society. http://newwestartists.com To find out more details. Facebook https://www.facebook.com/newwestartists?fref=ts

Blue Pencil Critique Sessions with Candice James and Donald Neil Simmers Location: New Westminster Library 716 6th Avenue, New Westminster Date: Tuesday June 11, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30 PM · Pre registrations for 1 on 1 sessions only · 1 on 1 sessions are 15 minutes each · Bring work you want critiqued · Free · Email secretary@rclas.com or phone 778-714-1772 and specify your choice of critique Candice James or Donald Neil Simmers and we will set your time slot. Sponsored by RCLAS and NWPL.

RCLAS presents "Short Story Open Mic with Margo Prentice"

Location: The Heritage Grill, Backstage Room 447 Columbia St, New Westminster Date: Wednesday June 12, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30 PM Join Hostess, Margo Prentice for Short Story Open Mic. *** Please note.This is not a poetry event - short stories only Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society. ***This will be an ongoing series and will be on the second Wednesday of each month. An active member of the Waves writing group, Margo has been published in the Vancouver Sun and her poetry also appears in Royal City Poets Anthology 2011. She is the Artistic Director of the Golden Age Theatre and has written a number of plays which have been performed by this group. Her Workshop, How to Write A Play, was presented at the LitFest in 2013. * Reads/Hosts regularly at Poetic Justice, as well as, reciting at open mic with Rennaisance Books in New Westminster. * Written more than 150 stories, and recently finished the manuscript for a book she hopes to publish in 2013. * Senior worker on the Heart2Art Project, a leader in spoken word.

* A Stand-up comic who has worked extensively in Vancouver and the Lower Mainland. * Writes her own material, and especially enjoys writing comedy.

Poetry In The Park Summer 2013 Location: Queen’s Park Bandshell New Westminster Opening Night: Wednesday July 3, 2013 Every Wednesday Eve 6:30PM – 8:30 PM Summer 2013: July 3 thru August 28 Free admission Featured Poets and Open Mic with hostess, Candice James. Bring your poems, Bring your friends! Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society, Arts Council of New Westminster, Silver Bow Publishing and Poetry New Westminster. *** If it rains we will move into the Arts Council Gallery at Centennial Lodge near the Bandshell. Pablo Neruda Unveiled Location: New Westminster Public Library 716 – 6th Avenue, New Westminster, BC Date: Tuesday July 16, 2013 Time: 6:30 PM – 8:30 PM Poetry readings from “The Heights of Macchu Picchu” by Pablo Neruda featuring Manolis Aligizakis with Candice James, Janet Kvammen, Gavin Hainsworth and friends.

Pablo Neruda Born Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto July 12, 1904 Parral, Chile Died September 23, 1973 Santiago, Chile Occupation Poet, Diplomat Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature 1971 Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society and NWPL

Linking Passion and Inspiration Workshop With Deborah L. Kelly Location: New Westminster Public Library Plaskett Room, Upstairs 716 – 6th Avenue, New Westminster, BC Date: Monday August 12, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30PM The purpose of this workshop is to review how passion works in hand with our inspiration. We will focus on how our passions affect our writing, and its influence on inspiration. We will review different types of poetry and the different reasons we write. The first and foremost passion that arouses all inspiration is of course, our passion for the written word; this draws us into action. We will also touch on the existentialism of passion and inspiration.

POETIC JUSTICE Schedule June 2013

{Poetic Justice is under the umbrella of RCLAS, our sister group}

Location: Heritage Grill Backroom 447 Columbia St New Westminster near Columbia skytrain station Contact Person: Franci Louann Email: flouann@telus.net

Website: www.poeticjustice.ca

Poetic Justice featuring Alan Hill and Bren Simmers with host, Eva Waldauf Date: Sunday, June 2, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm

Poetic Justice Featuring Kimmy Beach/ Gavin Hainsworth/ Janet Kvammen/ Gail VanKalsbeek with host, Candice James Date: Sunday, June 9, 2013 ***Change of Venue for June 9 only – Location: The Network Hub River Market (Upstairs @Visual Verse Art Show) 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Time: 3-5 pm

Poetic Justice Featuring Candice James/ Lilija Valis/ Cristy Watson with host, Alan Hill

Date: Sunday, June16, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm

Poetic Justice Featuring Mahara Allbrett/ Sonja Littlejohn/ Annie Ross with host, Sho Wiley

Date: Sunday, June 23, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm

Come join us! We have Open Mic sign-up at every Poetic Justice.

WE WILL BE CLOSED JUNE 30 & ALL OF JULY & AUGUST.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Non-Fiction Honorable Mention

Duffle Bag of Poetry

David Delaney

Feeling excited about my involvement in the redroom company’s ‘seafaring

duffle bag of poetry’, which started its journey in Tasmania stopping at different

ports along the way until reaching its final port of call at Thursday Island in far

north Queensland, before being transported to Sydney for a gala exhibition, and,

while on its travels collecting poems and different ‘goodies’ related to anything to

do with the ocean, I agreed to ‘pick up’ the said Duffle bag when it docked at

Cairns wharf.

My wife Bev and I arrived at the wharf area in Cairns where the huge tanker

‘Alexander Spirit’ was berthed and had the bag on board.

Continuing to the security guards ‘hut’ where I excitedly and cheerfully greeted

the guard, who appeared to have the humour of a bear emerging from hibernation,

he then proceeded to seize my phone, camera, keys, wife, “wife!”, apparently

Bev’s name was not on his “list” of those allowed on board (I’m glad she left the

rocket launcher at home) though with Bev not being allowed entry turned out to be

a blessing in disguise, for her.

Leaving Bev with dwarf “Grumpy” I was concerned she might have to perform a

medical miracle in putting his face back together if he tried to smile, I thought,

while continuing my walk to the gangplank, did I say “gangplank” this incline was

no less than the east face of Mt. Everest and I’m sure the top was obscured by

cloud cover.

About a half hour later, and, by myself for my trusty “Sherpa’s” had abandoned

me, I reached the summit, where in the misty confines I noticed the couple of crew

members on deck were wearing hard hats, blinding bright safety vests and huge

mother steel cap boots, so, there’s me, frozen, Akubra hat, striped T-shirt &

SANDALS, left leg partially outstretched suspended in mid air not wanting to

place even my big toe on that deck and risk creating a national incident or hear that

infamous cry “it’s out brothers out” and be responsible for the duffle bag never

again seeing the light of day, let alone make Thursday Island, I dared not place one

fibre of my body on that deck.

The two mentioned crew came over and said it was OK to come on board, so,

after they prized my hands free from the gangplank rails one escorted me to where

the 1st mate was waiting then, with introductions over he said he would take me up

to the Captain,

UP!! I thought,

I’ve just bloody well climbed Mt. Everest and your saying UP!

Now I’ll never know why the ships crew walk so fast, and, took almost all my

strength to stay with him when suddenly he turned right and then I saw them, you

have to be kidding!! these stairs were almost VERTICAL and here is this bloke

‘jogging’ up them, reaching the 5th step I thought “I’m going to die here”, matey is

already three flights up then, humorously asks if I’m “OK”,

If I had the strength I would have given him OK!

Crawling onto which ever deck level it was and not thinking properly because of

altitude sickness, then, using the walls as support I finally made it to the Captains

quarters, where, the Captain, upon shaking my hand dislodged every joint from my

shoulder to my wrist, then handed me the duffle bag, now, normally this bag would

have seemed quite light but in my deteriorating condition, both bag and I sunk to

the floor quicker than an anchor being dropped into the bay.

Regaining some resemblance of composure, and, being the little media tart I can

be, I then made the mistake of asking Captain ‘Kidd’ for a photo of the bag

handover, explaining that my camera was seized on arrival. He said, “Sure, let’s go

up to the bridge,”

Oh no! There’s that word “UP” again.

When finally returning to my wife (walking like a marathon runner with jelly

legs) and bidding farewell to the “laughing assassin”, we returned home with the

duffle bag safely secured, where, I proceeded to recoup with a cold beer, or two, or

five…....

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Poetry Honorable Mention

Sanity Uber Alles

Alan Hill

Through watching schizophrenia

-that skull crushing fantasist

I had it sucked out of me through my ears

was left with nothing but my mind

glued and nailed backwards

to be ridden in an SS truck, Action T4

being driven by me

slaughtering myself

of all my compassion

all weakness

hunting down my own sicknesses

forcing myself

with weak smiles and a loaded revolver

to admit my own fear,

medicalise my every moment.

My belief in my parents was taken

into foster care

my siblings became an embarrassment

to be live beyond

life being all they were not.

My family a defeated City

engrossed in recriminations

jealousy, acts of cowardice

small acts of rescue

gross acts of collaboration

finger pointing

my flesh and blood jumping from windows

into un-inflated life rafts.

Oh yes, you’re right,

it could have worse

I could have selling my body

on a Rio Street

or been six and breaking bricks

for a dollar a day

in an Indian slum

and all that guilt I survived

that somehow, somewhere

someone else would pay the price.

Why did I get a life?

But there is nothing special here

just that after some things

you are no more

like being hit by a truck

or taking a bullet in the head.

Live and let live

Let me live

Let those that can

save themselves.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Fiction Honorable Mention

Fish and Chips

Ben Nuttall-Smith

Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones approaches the park table, looking to right and left, to

make sure no one else has the same spot in mind. Under his left arm he carries a

folded newspaper and a long black umbrella. In his right hand he carries a package,

neatly wrapped in newspaper.

Mr. Jones is a tall, thin man in his late seventies or early eighties. He wears a

bowler hat, a dark blue raincoat extending to his knees, and thick, horn rim

spectacles that contrast strikingly with his snow white goatee and moustache.

Fastidiously, he circles the table to find a spot that suits him, before he

places his package, umbrella, and newspaper on the wooden bench. He draws a

large blue handkerchief from his right coat pocket and flicks crumbs from the

table. Observing a spot resistant to his efforts, he picks up a twig, scrapes at the

table surface, and blows the residue off the table at the far end. The flicking,

scraping, and blowing take three minutes at least.

He shakes out his handkerchief with both hands, until a crumb falls, before

he deigns to return it to his coat pocket. After that, he opens his newspaper and

spreads it on the table. A picture offends his eye. He shakes his head, turns over the

paper, and smoothes it with both hands in an outward, sweeping motion.

He places the umbrella on the far side of the newspaper, adjusts it until it’s

perfectly centred, and positions the package precisely opposite the umbrella.

Before he sits down, there is just one more thing he must do. He extracts his

handkerchief, dusts the bench, shakes the cloth with both hands as before, and

returns it to his pocket.

Gazing in satisfaction at the arrangement before him, he at last sits down,

looking to right and left to ensure he’s alone. He removes his bowler with both

hands, places it carefully above the umbrella, and adjusts it. Just so.

Still far from done, he reaches into another coat pocket and extracts a small

biretta cap, patterned in tartan. This he places on his nearly bald head.

At last, Mr. A.P-J. carefully begins to open the package, folding back each

sheet of newspaper at a time.

The meal exposed before him at last, he rises to shoo away the gathering

pigeons, first to one side, then to the other. Again, he sits down. His handkerchief

will serve another purpose now. He tucks it behind his collar and spreads it out as

much as he can.

For just a moment, he bows his head in thanksgiving. Then he pulls his

sleeves up a notch and commences his meal. With customary precision, he chews

each mouthful twenty times. Occasionally, he breaks off a part of a chip and tosses

it to the pigeons, now reassembled nearby, scolding one or two for apparent greed

as he does so.

At the close of his meal, Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones removes his “bib”,

shakes it out, and returns it to his pocket. Carefully, he folds up the newspaper

within the one he used for a table cloth, removes the cap from his head, and

replaces it with his bowler hat.

Only then does he pull out his harmonica from his vest pocket and turn away

from the table. To serenade the birds.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Poetry Honorable Mention

Escape To Eden

Lilija Valis

You have moved far away to a fabled Pacific island, a refuge from a troubled mainland of unruly neighbors throwing rocks at you as you returned home from work late at night a rainforest protects you now, you live in a house by a secluded bay with a cat who chose you and with flowers around you to perfume your days but you are slowly dying of some deviously modern cancer invading and subduing, you brought it with you, hoping it would die in the sun but Eden is letting it live no human around you who loves you, a brother thousands of miles away, I met you once or twice in California, you are my sister’s friend, but she too has been taken hostage I think about you often, what a gentle soul you are, how you love light and colors, the advantage others took of you as you shied away from conflict – you have the look of a flower in a storm you are family, yes, you are, I’m sending you love in the books and the poems, hoping it dulls the edges and sweetens the sadness.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Fiction Honorable Mention

Ali and the Sand

Margo Prentice

Mother calls me to come into the tent. I watch the sand as the sun sets and

the colors change from pale yellow to red. The colors of the sand change with the

movement of the sun and the twirling of wind. It has been a hot and burning day,

the sun hot to the skin on my hands and feet. I am nine and half. I live with my

mother and father, aunts and uncles, cousins and my older brother. I have a

younger sister too; she is such a pest and follows me everywhere.

My Father and Uncles have camels and sheep; we live in a tent the desert. The tent

is big and made of goats’ hair. It is warm in the cold and cool in the heat. There is

another tent for the sheep, but it is not so nice! A heavy cloth of many pretty colors

divides our tent into two spaces. Each side of the cloth in the tent has different

uses, one side is where the men gather, or when company arrives that is where they

sit. The other half is where the women cook, get together and the children sleep.

When we have company there is music, the sounds of flute put me to sleep.

We are Bedouins; my Father tells me that I must carry on the traditions of our

culture, which he says will be lost if I don’t. I spend many hours listening to my

Father’s Stories and poetry of brave Bedouin tribes of long ago. My Mother has

taught me to read. Father takes me out a night, the cold sand, on my bare feet.

Looking up at the big sky I think it is a giant bowl on top of us. Father points out

the constellations of the stars and is teaching me how to navigate from them for the

next day’s travels. They look like diamonds on a black cloth.

My future bride is chosen for me and I am to marry in a few years to my cousin

Fazilat. She is my friend; we take care of our family’s sheep together, watching

them as we go from one oasis to another to feed them.

I like to hear the sound of a sand storm and often my mother has to call me into the

tent.

“Ali I swear by Allah, you have more sand in your blood than most Bedouins.”

The sound of the storm puts me to sleep as a lay under my lambskin covers.

Sometimes we go to the outskirts of the city where my Father will trade, good

sheep for coffee, tea, rice and other food. I have tasted candy once, but didn’t like

it, the sweetness of it made me shudder. I’d rather have fresh apricots or peaches

from my Uncles oasis garden. My favourite treat is goat curd wrapped around a

date and I love drinking cardomen flavoured tea.

When my Father lets me ride our camel I pretend I am tribal chief, I can make him

go fast and pretend that I am fighting another tribe who has dishonoured my

Father. Father says honour is essential to us as a family. The sand swirls around

me and I cover my mouth as I ride. All my cousins cheer me on awaiting their turn.

It is very, very special when my boy cousins and I can go out with the men and

watch them train and work the falcons. Father says that we are the best Falconers

in the entire world. The falcon flies high over the sand sometimes bringing a rare

desert hare for a tasty treat at supper. The falcon is so handsome and strong with

bright yellow eyes and feathers of deep brown. Maybe some day my Father will

show me how to train these great birds.

I have more than one favourite time of the day. My most favourite is eating time,

especially when we have company. The food is cooked in a big pot over a fire pit

in the centre of the tent. The smell of lamb stewing with tomatoes, rice cooking

fills the tent and I get really hungry. There are dates, fruit and goat curd cheese.

Afterwards the children have to go to bed but we can hear the stories and songs of

our family’s history through the curtain. As a go to sleep I think I will always want

to be a child of the desert, like Mother says I have sand running in my veins.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Poetry Honorable Mention

War Musket Grass (Bay of Fundy)

Donna Allard

I see no soldier’s uniform as I walk along these shores

but fresh blood cliffs, musket grass,

and a labyrinth of our relics,

the unfolding of this puzzle to figure out a broader picture,

as rose clashed with la fleur de lys…

like an arcanum shared by a friend

who said to follow water trails

like a pirate in search of a chest, as magnet speaks closer to sand …

He said many have found treasures under the sheet of their own graves.

Yet I favour its peaceful clay to dyed denim & origin,

as I connect with those who fell for their flower & sleep inside

this bay of mud.

Today, hooves flit in Fundy sun,

safe & watchful over my eyes,

and I wonder if that story was ever passed to their offspring,

since man conquers on a saddle.

Come walk with me, sense a presence, their memory

dancing with tides, like a final oratory

along red cliffs & grassy shores.

Let me retreat from time & fog, as I fear ghosts & bellwalkers,

they swear the land still smells of powder

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Fiction Honorable Mention

Little Mountain

Lorraine Kiidumae

Cleo had always thought that suicide was a fate for the young – for those with an

unfortunate genetic propensity toward depression. Once you’d survived, and married, had

a successful career, children, bought a beautiful home near Little Mountain, life should be

pretty well sewed up, shouldn’t it? Pretty well leveled off into a balance of joys and

struggles. But somewhere between that dream and the holding of it all together there

seemed to be an abyss.

His obituary had been short and sweet, no photograph, just a single paragraph in

the Oceanside Star. “In Loving Memory of Ralph R. Cromley 1943 – 2006. Loved you

yesterday, love you still. Always have, always will. Miss you, Rosie & kids.”

Today, on this sunny Sunday, Cleo stood atop Little Mountain. Her husband was

showing his father the view – trying to point out their house – and Cleo was there, on the

outer side of the guard-rails, looking down. A red-tailed hawk circled ominously

overhead, casting a shadow on the trees. It swooped down to scoop up some small

mammal scurrying through the brush. “Touchdown” Cleo thought, then half-laughed at

the triteness of her own black humour. She was thinking of “Mr. Grey Cup.” That was

what the locals called him.

Ralph Cromley had lived on Dolphin Drive in “Fairwinds,” an affluent golf resort

neighbourhood in the picturesque town of Nanoose Bay. From his living room window

he’d boasted a wrap-around view out across the Straight of Georgia. On that Grey Cup

Sunday in November of 2006 it was a sunny day, just like today, and foamy waves

crashed against the Ballenas Islands off in the distance. Mr. Grey Cup turned on his big-

screen television up in the loft. There were black leather lounge chairs with drink cup

holders, and seating the size of a small theatre. His wife, Rosie, had set out unsalted

peanuts and pretzels in bowls, and rinsed and dried the Waterford crystal scotch glasses,

placing them on the fold-down shelf in the built-in private bar.

A former oil company executive, Mr. Grey Cup coveted a private bar his whole

life and when he retired to Fairwinds and built this custom home, it had everything he’d

dreamed of. A pool table occupied one entire room and there was another mini-bar in that

room too.

He and Rosie invited a few neighbours over to watch the game. It was the first

time the home team had played in six years, since 2000 when the BC Lions, in a close 28-

26 game, beat the Montreal Alouettes – the same team they were playing today.

Mr. Grey Cup realized he was out of soda water and low on appetizers so he told

Rosie he was heading out to Quality Foods at the Red Gap Mall.

“What?!” Said Rosie. “You’re going out now? You know the Snell’s are always

early. Hurry up then!”

“I’ll be as fast as I can.” These words, were to haunt Rosie later.

After an hour Ralph had not returned. The jocular husbands and coifed and lip-

sticked wives arrived and Rosie was embarrassed and angry. Where had he got to? He

didn’t pick up his cell phone when she called.

The guests assembled in the Lazy-Boy recliners. They commented on the view

and the new Persian rug in the living room. Rosie dimmed the lights and poured scotch

into the Waterford glasses, without the soda water. Serving herself a double shot, she

belted it back.

The game started. By the second quarter the BC Lion’s were ahead of Montreal

14-7. The neighbours cheered and jumped out of their seats, too engrossed to notice that

Ralph wasn’t in the room. Rosie sneaked to the guestroom to check out the window for

Ralph’s car in the driveway. She paced back and forth, looking down the road.

Later, Rosie tip-toed downstairs and rifled through the front closet. She held her

breath as she moved their Patagonia rain jackets, hanging in front of the golf clubs and

ski boots, out of the way. Flipping on the closet light, Rosie peered into the far corner.

She felt the blood run from her face, then breathed out. It was still there. Ralph hadn’t

been hunting since they’d left Alberta but had held onto his Remington 597 semi-

automatic. And it was always kept loaded, in case, Ralph had reasoned with her, they

ever needed it for self-defense.

Rosie felt drained. She opened the front door and walked down the driveway, into

the middle of the road, carrying her cell phone. There was no glimpse of Ralph’s grey

Lexus anywhere in sight. She dialed. After three rings Rosie heard his voice. “Hi, this is

Ralph. I can’t come to the phone right now, since I’m either rounding up some salmon or

trying to sink a long putt, because we’re living the dream…while dreaming of life. Here

comes the beep.”

For an instant Rosie thought Ralph had actually answered. She stood with her

eyes closed and began to pray. “Please God. Please. Not my Ralphy. Please bring Ralph

home safely to me.”

Tires screeched and a horn honked. She opened her eyes hopefully. “Hey lady, are

you completely crazy?!” A young man with dark hair leaned his head out the window of

his red RX7. He sounded the horn one more time as he passed, just missing her. Rosie

walked back to the house. She stood, looking at the painting above the antique smoking

table in the entrance-way. Robert Bateman’s limited edition “Above the Rapids – Gulls &

Grizzly.” One of three in Ralph’s collection, and this was his favourite. Her hands

trembled as reality permeated through her scalp to her temples, and seeped into her pores.

Swallowing hard, she dialed 911.

One of the first places they checked was Little Mountain.

He had actually driven to Red Gap first. The generic soda water sat in a bag on

the floor of the back seat, along with a package of cocktail wieners, a jar of Bavarian

sweet mustard, and a prawn cocktail ring that was starting to smell.

After going to Red Gap, Mr. Grey Cup must have driven up the bumpy, narrow

road to the peak of Little Mountain, then stepped through the broken mesh fence onto the

grassy hill that looked south towards the mountains. It had been an easy step forward,

into the beauty of nature, towards the bottom.

His wife said it was an accident even though his hat, gloves, wallet, keys, Rolaid

tablets, coins, Kleenex – all the contents of his pockets – were in a neat pile in the centre

of the driver’s seat. He had been depressed, yes, but he would never have missed the

Grey Cup, would never have been so thoughtless as to time it with the arrival of their

guests, to not even say goodbye.

Thinking about Mr. Grey Cup had taken Cleo’s mind away from the sick feeling in her

stomach. She looked over at her husband standing on the other side, laughing and

smiling, pointing out the highlights to his father, trying to catch her attention. She

breathed in the mountain air and forced a smile. Her husband had no idea. He didn’t

know. She’d been going through the pangs and humiliation of love for over a year now

and he had absolutely no idea. He glanced over to make sure she was still there,

wondering what she was doing. Cleo thought again of Mr. Grey Cup. How it is that we

can live so closely to other people and yet, not even know what demons are crawling

around inside of them.

The RCMP did a routine search of Mr. Grey Cup’s house and found the hunting rifle.

When they pulled it out and inspected it a little piece of paper folded into four sections

fluttered out and landed on the carpet. One of the officers picked it up and read the note.

He cleared his throat and handed it to Rosie, then excused himself down the hall to the

bathroom.

Ralph was like that. Always leaving little quotes around, a bit of a rogue poet

Rosie always said. She unfolded the note and read from Ralph’s large round handwriting.

“You can fall from a mountain, you can fall from a tree, but the best way to fall, is to fall

in love with Rosie.” She started to cry.

Cleo looked out to the open space below. She was right on the edge. It would be so easy

to trip on the gnarled stump in front of her. But she wasn’t like Mr. Grey Cup. She had

always found it possible to accept her losses. Breathing deeply, she stepped back and

ducked through the opening in the broken wire fence. She started to run, bolting back to

the car. She threw herself into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Her

husband looked over. Through the tinted window she caught the look of concern and hurt

and disappointment on his face at her perceived lack of interest in the view.

Overview of August 12th Workshop

The purpose of this workshop is to review how passion

works in hand with our inspiration. Part I of this two hour workshop will focus on how our passions affect our

writing, and its influence on inspiration. We will review different types of poetry and the different reasons we

write. The first and foremost passion that arouses all inspiration is of course, our passion for the written

word; this draws us into action. We will also touch on the existentialism of passion and inspiration.

I will be using the renowned Russian poet, Aleksandr

Sergeyevich Pushkin as an example. We will study one of his works, “Demon,” to see how our passions can

affect our writing more than we realize, and to show how our passions and inspiration can change, in just

one poem. This section of the workshop will run for

approximately 45 minutes.

Question and answer period.

Part II of this workshop, for the first half hour, we will explore different ways of accessing our inner Word Weaver, and things which

can help in inspiring us further. I will also look at various ways of coping with writer’s block, as well as various ways of clearing the channel.

The last half hour of the workshop will be for practicing writing while being

aware of the passions which join together, to create the inspiration for writing any particular work. We will share our works with others in the

workshop, but will not have the time to break them down.

8:30 Workshop ends.

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Poetry Honorable Mention

every plant has a song

Jonina Kirton

in offices creating drawings too few landscape architects

have a natural affection for plants

while the plants never think of themselves

as extensions of houses or buildings

complementary experiences meant to pay homage

to architectural structures

designers and clients participate in the illusion of control

but some do want to know how things feel underfoot

that when allowed a chance to respond

plants themselves can create gardens

that time is the ultimate master

set adrift in suburbia through mists under cloudy skies

soft pinks glow chartreuses fluoresce

ambers warm whites glisten

lithe bunchgrasses wend their way down the path

a silent backdrop an organizing spine that anchors

the architect must orient the plant explore regionally

then suddenly a rogue tree windswept echoes the wild

shows off its special qualities

as light defines textures a shallow slope tender trunks

to soften the effects of cement structures

fluid associations shifting contexts and a conceptual frenzy

brings outcomes loops of public engagement

a coalition of hard and soft elements

weathered stones at water’s edge an intimate respite

a seamless composition that brings acoustic interest

the cascading waterfall a grand gesture

while arching oak branches encourage lingering

a narrow path invites a solitary adventure

leaving ample room for emergence

paths evolve offer a place among plants

a rhythm that the eye can follow

the forest floor breathes death decay birth

some gardens are blessed plants seed and distribute themselves

untamed replication wildflower meadows stone pots

not repeating lines of matching trees and shrubs

in some gardens plants have been allowed to have their own way

bold flowers mingle grow next to the street

make a brief dependable appearance, year after year

"Note: every plant has a song is taken from Relatives with Roots by Leah Marie Doran

Many words and phrases taken from Grounded: The Work of Phillips Farevaag Smallenberg

edited by Kelty McKinnon and Plant – Driven Design: Creating Gardens that Honour Plants,

Place and Spirit by Scott Ogden and Lauren Springer Ogden. "

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Non-Fiction Honorable Mention

My Life with Orcas

Patricia Wilder

Over the years I have had many beautiful and profound experiences with the orcas of the

Pacific Northwest. The following story is a tiny glimpse of how this bond reveals itself,

demonstrating a connection between species, between cultures and kindred spirits. It is a love

story in every sense of the word, it is my story.

One lovely summer day many years ago I boarded an old yacht at Sayward on Vancouver

Island. We headed north towards Port McNeill. No matter what the weather, we were in

Johnstone Strait which is a beautiful place to be and a place where the magic typically happens.

As we were travelling at a relaxed steady pace the weather created one of the most

unusual fogs I had ever seen. It rolled in so thick and fluffy it looked like huge bundles of cotton

candy floating in the air and you could literally reach out and touch it. Despite the overcast skies

all were enjoying their holiday and discovered how quickly our weather changes. As we all say,

wait five minutes it will change. In many ways it was quite beautiful, there was little to no wind

which gave the atmosphere a surreal quality as the cotton candy hung thick in the air. The

downside was that the Captain could barely see in front of the boat making navigation tricky at

times. Even though he knew the area like the back of his hand, one never knows how many

floating logs there might be and if entering a very narrow channel there is always the risk of

hitting an outcropping of rocks.

While the others remained inside due to visibility and the Captain was busy practising

his navigational skills maneuvering through the channels; I felt very compelled to remain outside

unaware of what was about to occur. Little did I know that I was about to be the recipient of one

of Mother Nature's greatest gifts.

Suddenly through the fog, there it was, ahhh music to my ears, breaking the silence with

its melodic rhythmic timing, to this day it is a sound I cherish. The infamous inhale exhale of

orca's breathing and it was most welcome at this time. Sensing our limitations with visibility, a

nearby orca pod known as the A30's arrived on the scene taking the place of a foghorn that

guides Sailors to safety. At this time the pod consisted of seven individuals with six of them

moving up and in front of the boat as if to say to the Captain, follow our breaths, gently &

slowly, and all will be well. I stayed at the back of the boat but then peered over the side to see

who was breathing right alongside me. I seemed to have acquired my own special guide whom I

could glimpse even through the dense fog. It was a large full grown adult male with an

unmistakable 6 ft. dorsal towering above the water. It was A38, otherwise known as Blackney.

He stayed close enough to the boat, parallel to me at all times. I remained awestruck and thrilled

with my oversized friend. I could have gone inside to tell the others we had company; but I

didn't. I remained, not wanting to leave his side even for a moment.

Somehow, through listening to their breathing I was suddenly catapulted into their world,

taken to another place, another time, a whole new world and it was remarkable. Time stood still,

actually time simply did not exist at all and my senses were heightened to a capacity that I did

not even know I possessed.

My sense of hearing was the first to shift dramatically; it had suddenly become so acute, so sharp

that when an eagle far off in the distance let out a screech, it shattered the silence almost

deafening me in the process. I was completely immersed in their world now, mind, body and

soul. It was spectacular. Here we were, two very different species; we crossed a bridge into

each other's worlds, one that was overflowing in unconditional love, respect and a divine

meeting of the minds.

At one point during our time together a silly thought entered my head, one of many and I

recall thinking how in the world can you maneuver your physical body with such skill and

flexibility, such agility and speed when necessary. Well he caught my little thought and went

with it, obliging without judgment or annoyance. On cue he went around behind the boat

approximately 40 - 50 feet away and I could clearly feel him say, “okay just watch, don't look

away, and keep watching." Truth be told I couldn't take my eyes off of him, even had I wanted

to. So as I was watching & learning and he's doing a demonstration, he moves forward at quite a

good speed then suddenly stops on a dime, twisting his massive body slightly left, then a sharp

hard right and snatched a salmon as quick as lightening, he had completely psyched the salmon

out by faking left. It was impressive, I was impressed and he knew it. He then comes up to the

back of the boat beaming with pride as if to say, "Now that is how it’s done, dear". I realized

then that not only do I have a majestic friend & guide, he is a bit sassy too! Its official, I'm in

love.

At this point, two elderly European men came up from below deck and mentioned that

everyone had been napping due to the fog and such. The fog had now lifted high enough above

the waterline to see a fair distance. I had been so caught up in the moment that I did not realize

that over 2 hours had passed by. Upon noticing that my hair had been soaked right through and

was dripping with water, one says, "have you been out here the whole time, come to think of it

we hadn't seen you in ages, what on earth made you stay out... ohhhhh; the sentence hanging in

mid-air unfinished the moment he spotted Blackney right behind the boat. Both men go quiet

although I clearly heard a "holy shit" whispered from one of them. With eyes wide open in

disbelief, filled with wonder & amazement, they look at Blackney then back at me, then back to

him like some invisible tennis match was taking place that only they could see. Plus there is no

doubt I probably had some goofy wide eyed expression on my face as well. I think both

Blackney and I were now feeling like two kids who had been caught with their hands in the

cookie jar. Busted!

Then finally one says, "well, it certainly looks like the two of you have bonded, we've

heard about this sort of thing happening and now we see it with our own eyes. I don't think he's

quite finished playing with you yet though."

Blackney didn't seem to mind these new arrivals onto the scene; you could clearly feel his

mischievous side shine through and then I realized that during our time together I had completely

forgotten about my camera and now with the fog lifting I'd thought I better hurry up and get

some pictures before it's too late. With Blackney merely 10- 15 feet away now was the

opportune time. The men watched Blackney and began giggling; yes giggling like two young

schoolboys, orcas certainly do have a way of bringing out our fun & silly sides at times. With

eyes twinkling and everyone grinning foolishly, one says, "he's up to something, he's going to

play a trick on you, I know it", as if on cue Blackney goes under the boat & disappears. We

were giggling like children as we anticipated his next move. Where oh where did he go? I

started heading off to the right because his body was slightly aimed that direction as he dived

under when the one fellow said, "you'd better come back this way, I think he's going to pop up

here," as he pointed left. Just as I reach the left side - up pops the dorsal and an exhalation of air

so close I jumped back slightly, laughing the whole time. Apparently I learned nothing from the

salmon episode that occurred earlier. I laughed thinking - you little bugger, I fell for it! To this

day I swear I could hear him laughing inside as well as thinking, ha, gotcha. I scrambled to get a

picture, luckily he surfaced one more time just long enough for me to get my shot, and on that

note I felt him say, "With that I bid you adieu, thank you for your time, it was a pleasure." No

my dear friend I thought, the pleasure was most definitely mine. Till we meet again!

RCLAS Write On! Contest

Fiction Honorable Mention

The Universe Strikes Back

Donna Terrill

Leah stands at the bus stop across the street from St. Paul’s hospital. She is

mesmerized by the pulsating, rainbow-tinted lights, in star configurations that

cover the front façade of the ancient red brick building. The lights line a twinkling

tunnel along the walkway -- an enchanted, lit passage leading right up to the

emergency room doors.

She checks her watch – it’s after 1 a.m. Her fingers curl around the transit pass

in her pocket and she begins to worry that she’ll miss the last skytrain from

Burrard station. She raises her hand to hail a cab. She’s outmaneuvered by a large

group of young partiers spilling out of the Sheraton Wall Centre, filling up cab

after yellow cab. Amid their exuberance and laughter she catches snips of

conversation – they’re members of the Vision party, attending a victory party for

re-elected Vancouver mayor, Gregor Robertson. They exude a celebratory aura of

success, the headiness of flexing young civic muscles and then getting to read

about it in the headlines the next morning.

A half-remembered message, delivered at a gathering of thousands in a sports

stadium resonates in Leah’s brain:

Become inspired. Believe. Work hard with passion. Expect success. Become an

agent for change. Enroll others with your zeal.

Is she quoting Tony Robbins or the Dalai Lama? K’naan? When had she started to

think of this as a mantra reserved exclusively for naïve youth? Had her life become

a cautionary tale, a biblical prophecy warning “pride goeth before the fall”? Jaded

and weary, she had come to believe in the danger that lurks in arrogance. If you

dare to feel invincible, at the top of your game the planets align to put you,

chastised, in your place…or in a bed in a cardiac care unit. Suddenly the universe

is in charge and you are at the mercy of your human, flawed physiology, being

brought to your knees by leaky valves or faulty wiring.

Only a few hours ago Leah and her husband, Matt exited the Vogue Theatre

along with a jubilant audience still in the throes of Barney Bentall’s closing

number, “Goin’ to the Opry”. They congratulated each other for daring to become

country music fans for just this one day every year. The tickets were pricey but so

was running the Downtown Eastside food program that the benefit concert funded.

They bought the cds. They laid down money for tickets on the meat draw. Self-

satisfied, they basked in the knowledge that, like every previous year their ‘

honourable’ gesture would be rewarded with great value for the money. They were

not disappointed. The Legendary Hearts had backed Barney for 30 years. Tonight,

the band added to their numbers, assembling fifteen musicians who treated us to

exquisite guitar- picking, sweet-as-honey harmonies and boot-stomping beats. At

times the performers seemed oblivious to the audience as they responded to each

other’s rhythms but the crowd was spell-bound, privileged to witness these

magical, musical moments. The show- stealer, a tiny, short-skirted violinist raised

electronic fiddle-playing to unimaginable, soaring heights of heart-bursting

fervour. Her blonde pony tail whipped the air, punctuating the end of each riff.

The air outside was crisp as Leah and Matt hustled along Granville Street

towards the skytrain. Arm-in-arm they considered stopping somewhere for an Irish

coffee. Leah felt euphoric and maybe a little smug – a good evening, a good story

to tell. They laughed in the winter-tinged night air. It was then that Matt’s chest

pains began. He didn’t resist as she urged him into a taxi. A couple of pumps of

nitro, always kept in his nearby pocket, helped but catching his breath was still

arduous. Thirty minutes later Matt was sitting up in an emergency room bed in a

hospital gown, hooked up to various monitors as a white-coated lab tech

administered the blood-letting. The routine was familiar -– it wasn’t the first time.

The magic elixir draining into his arm from the IV bag had done its work. Matt’s

breathing was even, his colour had pinked up and he was looking around for the

Sports section of the weekend paper. Just to be “safe” the ER doctor booked an

angiogram for the next morning.

Eleven months ago, to the day, Leah and Matt’s busy lives had faltered, the

momentum stalled, recalibrating was required. They had convinced themselves that

the first coronary had been a freakish aberration, never to be repeated; that

tweaking Matt’s diet and compliance with the medications would eliminate any

further scares. They celebrated every benchmark –- at thirty days, driving was

resumed, at ninety days, Matt qualified for travel insurance and could board a

plane for Palm Springs where he played his first post-surgery round of golf. They

believed that every milestone brought them closer to a return to their old life, even

with the addition of a regular round of cardiac specialist appointments, regular lab

tests to gauge the effect of various blood thinners and the Sunday night ritual of

counting out a week’s pills from nine different medication vials. This routine had

become the new ‘normal’ until tonight.

Leah recalls a high school physics theorem, “for every action there is an equal

and opposite reaction”. The concert had sparked a revival of trust – it had let Leah

hope, just for a minute that the ominous cloud overhead had dissipated, that this

was a new beginning where she had no knowledge of stents or blockages. Her

fearful heart opened, dared to unfurl. Matt’s heart….no. Don’t think that way. She

picks up an issue of 24 Hours, lying abandoned on the bench beside her and turns

to the crossword. It’s almost complete. To finish another’s crossword always feels

like an intimate invasion of privacy. It just reveals too much about one’s

familiarities and frailties. She applauds the word-player’s efforts for words like

“senile”, “placate” and “emote”. She fills in the lapses with “episodic”, “aorta” and

“arrest”. The puzzle is solved but there is no satisfaction in it.

At the taxi stand nearby the last few stragglers cajole the cabbie to bend the

rules and allow them to stuff an extra reveler or two into the remaining cab. With

the triumphant air of conquering heroes but tempered by the playfulness of a

basket of puppies they win him over. Their youthful pleading charms the driver,

not unlike the Vision party campaigner who appeared on Leah’s front porch last

summer. With clipboard in hand, the pierced and tattooed young woman wearing

camouflage-printed cargo pants and skater shoes greeted her with a grin and

proceeded to ask, “Have you decided how to vote in the upcoming municipal

election?” Leah listened to her pitch but was more aware of the serious look of

commitment in the girl’s eyes. She saw a hunger for a chance to wield some voting

power, to have a voice. Skater-girl gave a thumbs up as she left with Leah’s cheque

and said, “I just turned 18, this is my first election!”

Leah watches, from her bench at the bus stop as the cab departs. Again, her eyes

take in the luminous splendour that frames the hospital’s entrance across the street.

Rows upon rows of layered stars, ablaze with kaleidoscopic hues. The tunnel of

fairy lights lends comfort and courage on the walk to the emergency room door to

face the future on the other side. “Lights of Hope”, the signage says, a meek

reminder for today, and a beacon for tomorrow, when a new reality, humbled but

hopeful begins.

2013 Visual Verse Artist and Poet Match Up

1. Richard Armstrong // Mohenjo-daro by Eileen Kernaghan

2. Katie Boughen // Into The Light by Donna Ross

3. Tony Bryant // Navigation By The Night Sky by Gavin Hainsworth

4. Sharon Bettker // Escape To Eden by Lilija Valis

5. Judith Copland // Silver Thaw by Mary Duffy

6. Dale Costanzo // Gift by Mary Duffy

7. Alicja Draganska // Prodding by Manolis Aligizakis

8. Anthony Hollenstein // Between Earth and Sky by Janet Kvammen

9. Amanda Ivings // Blue by Lilija Valis

10. Robert Jost // Chorus by Donna Ross

11. Kay Klyne // Together by Ashok Bhargava

12. Richard Klyne // Meditation is Key by Jo Martinez

13. Janet Kvammen // High Diver of Mazatlan by Bernice Lever

14. Irene Lacharite // Pink Eyeshadow by Angel Edwards

15. Monique Lum // Whispers by Ashok Bhargava

16. MAC 1 // Check Mate Mouse by Gary Redmond

17. MAC 2 // The Colours of the Quay by Franci Louann

18. MAC 3 // Sitting In A Field Of Dandelions by Jo Martinez

19. Carolyn McLaughlin // Under The Wild Pepper Tree by Ruth Kozak

20. Valerie McRae // Marble and Frost by Candice James

21. Carole Millar // Perfection by Donna Ross

22. Andre Minardi // Working My Garden of Eden by Gary Redmond

23. Teresa Morton // In The Stars by Janet Kvammen

24. Peri-Laine Nilan // The Road Goes On by Melissa Nilan

25. Elena Perelman // The Garden by Ruth Kozak

26. Don Portelance // We All Must Fall by Janet Kvammen

27. James Price // Gown by Manolis Aligizakis

28. Sally Reesman // Ascent by Mary Duffy

29. Shelley Rothenburger // The Throne Room by Alan Hill

30. Wendy Schmidt // Tug by Bernice Lever

31. Julia Schoennagel // Avalon by Lilija Valis

32. Gillian Wright // Morning Over The Fraser by Franci Louann

33. Elena Zhukova // Dance (Villanelle) by Eileen Kernaghan

34. Lavana LaBrey // Re-Romancing To Amuse A Muse by Gavin Hainsworth

35. Sandra White // Cool Water Piano Keys by Candice James

36. Cliff Blank // Shore Bound Stranger by Candice James

37. Omanie Elias // The UnBalancing Act by Alan Hill

38. Oksana Slonevskaya // View by Manolis Aligizakis

39. Sheila West // The Chalice Well, Glastonbury by Eileen Kernaghan

40. Penny Lim // Let There Be Poetry by Ruth Kozak

41. Solveig Brickenden // Celestial Treat by Ashok Bhargava

About Us

13 06 JUNE BIOS FOR POETIC JUSTICE—HERITAGE GRILL, BACKROOM 3-5 pm Sunday Afternoons—three features and open mic 447 Columbia St, New Westminster, near Columbia Station www.poeticjustice.ca CO-FOUNDER & BOOKING MANAGER—Franci Louann flouann@telus.net Website & Facebook Manager, Photographer—Janet Kvammen JUNE 2: HOST: EVA WALDAUF

ALAN HILL was born in the South West of England near the Welsh border. After leaving school at sixteen, he travelled extensively and worked in jobs ranging from renovating old graveyards to working in a jellybean factory. Since 2005 Alan has been living in Canada. He has been published in Canada in CV2, Canadian Literature, Vancouver Review, Antigonish Review, Quills, Sub-Terrain and in a number of anthologies. In the UK his work has appeared in South, The Wolf and Turbulence. He also has had work accepted for upcoming issues of the Dallas Review (USA), Brittle Star (UK) and Poetry is Dead (Canada). His first full collection The Upstairs Country (Silver Bow Publishing) was published in 2012. Alan is working on his second

collection, still untitled. This will explore his experiences growing up with an older brother who was diagnosed as having schizophrenia.

BREN SIMMERS (DEBUT) has worked in libraries, fire lookouts, and as a park interpreter. She was winner of the Arc Poem of the Year Award, and a finalist for both the Bronwen Wallace Memorial Award and the Malahat Review Long Poem Prize. Bren’s first book of poems, Night Gears, was published by Wolsak and Wynn in 2010. She is currently working on a manuscript about her East Vancouver neighbourhood.

JUNE 9: HOST: CANDICE JAMES ***Special One Time Only Venue Change

The Network Hub @ The River Market (Upstairs @Visual Verse Art Show) Near New

West Skytrain station 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC

Time: 3-5 pm

SPECIAL GUEST, ON TOUR – KIMMY BEACH…PJ DEBUT…

Kimmy's fifth book is The Last Temptation of Bond (The University of Alberta Press, 2013). She has served as Writer in Residence for the Writers Guild of Alberta, the Parkland Regional Library, and the Saskatchewan writers guild. She has read across the country and in the UK, and is on the faculty at Sage Hill Writing Experience where she co-facilitates the Introduction to Poetry and Fiction Workshop with John Gould.

GAVIN HAINSWORTH (PJ DEBUT) is best known for historical writing. He is also a non-fiction writer, journalist, columnist, and researcher. Gavin is President of the (new) Royal City Literary Arts Society and has recently emerged as a poet as well. Gavin’s poems reflect a new facet of private journeys, not public discourse. His work is featured in Royal City Poets: Anthology 2012.

JANET KVAMMEN is a photographer, artist and book cover designer—among other things. She is a poet of many passions who writes about her love of nature and the nature of love. Thinking she would never be published, she is now in several anthologies, and may even get her own book out someday if she ever gets her act together. She is the surprised recipient of a Writer’s International Network 2012 Distinguished Poet and Artist Award. Janet has been featured at Poetic Justice, Poetry in the Park, World Poetry, Surrey Muse, and Holy Wow Poets. She is a director of the Royal City Literary Arts Society and an active member of New West Artists. The graphic designer for Silver Bow Publishing,

she also does freelance design work. Janet thrives on creativity! It is good for the soul! Contact her by email @ interplanetjanet5@hotmail.com. Visit her PlanetJanet Creations page on Facebook.

GAIL VAN KALSBEEK (PJ DEBUT) has always wanted to be a writer, and experimented with different types of poetry and writing styles from the time she was in high school. She and her husband moved to the Yukon in 1979, returning to New Westminster in 2005. Gail holds a BA in Communications from Royal Roads University. She was published in the Royal City Poets Anthology 2012.

JUNE 16: HOST: ALAN HILL CANDICE JAMES is Poet Laureate of the city of New Westminster, a director of Royal City Literary Arts Society and Past President of the Federation of British Columbia Writers. She is the author of four poetry books: A Split in the Water, Inner Heart – a journey, Bridges and Clouds, and Midnight Embers – a Book of Sonnets. Candice has been keynote speaker at Word on the Street, Black Dot Roots Cultural Collective, and Write on the Beach. She received the Writers International Network’s Distinguished Poet Award in March 2013. Candice’s new book, Shorelines - a Book of Villanelles, will be released in June 2013. This 100 page full-colour book will showcase artwork by six artists to accompany each villanelle.

LILIJA VALIS was born in Lithuania and has lived in five other countries. Her government and private work involved helping people escape poverty. Lilija’s poetry book, Freedom on the Fault Line (2012), is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions. Her work has appeared in four anthologies. She reads at literary events and at political/ philosophical/ economic conferences. She was guest poet at ‘A Tribute to Astor Piazzolla’ by the Ensemble Tanguisette. Lilija has been interviewed on Co-op Radio. She hosts for Poetic Justice, Poetry in the Park and the Writers International Network. A member of the Canadian Authors Association, Federation of BC Writers, and Royal City

Literary Arts Society, Lilija is also a board member for Writers International Network.

CRISTY WATSON (PJ DEBUT) is a teacher and aspiring poet who loves to enter contests, especially ones with a time limit. She once entered a Burnaby Writer’s Society contest on the theme of Lost and Found. Her poems were lost but miraculously turned up on the day they announced the winner. Cristy has two published YA (young adult) novels with Orca Books (Benched and Living Rough) and is currently looking for homes for three more novels. She has published three chapbooks and one of them, Poetry from the Pelican, received an honourable mention in the first Coffee Shop Author Contest. She hosts open mic at the Pelican Rouge and continues to be involved in community literary projects.

JUNE 23: HOST: SHO WILEY MAHARA ALLBRETT (PJ DEBUT)—an Aboriginal Wellness Counsellor, healer and Reiki Master—is from the Sleil Waututh Nation in North Vancouver. She began writing poetry at fifteen and was published a year later. Her early work appeared in anthologies and journals such as Tamarack Review, Woman’s Eye, Forty Women Poets of Canada, Intrepid and Toronto’s Writ magazine. Mahara has been awarded three Canada Council grants. In 1971 her book Ka-la-la Poems was published by Daylight Press under her former name, Skyros Bruce. Mahara has read on CBC radio. She has taught workshops on journal keeping for personal and creative growth. Since the 1980’s Mahara has been published in Gatherings #7 and #9 (Theytus Books), Native Poetry in Canada, Shadow of the Dawn, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Poetry by Canadian Women and Native Poetry in Canada. Her last Canada Council grant was to develop a Native Mentoring Program for Youth.

SONYA LITTLEJOHN (PJ DEBUT) grew up outside Williams Lake. She hung out in the forest talking to trees and counting ants. A member of both Vancouver Poetry House and the Black Dot Roots and Culture Collective since 2009, she was on the first ever BeDRoCC Poetry Slam Team competing at CFSW 2011 in Toronto. Sonya is a facilitator for the WordPlay Poetry in Schools Program. Her poem, “Grey: A Bi-Racial Poem”, was included in the

anthology, Other Tongues: Mixed Race Women Speak Out, (Inanna Publications, 2010). She is a mother trying to inspire some change. Credit for the photo goes to Nora and Chris Photography: http://nandcphotography.com/

ANNIE ROSS (PJ DEBUT)

POETIC JUSTICE WILL BE CLOSED JUNE 30 & ALL OF JULY & AUGUST.

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June 20 13 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291-4269

For further information: Phone – 778-714-1772 Email – secretary@rclas.com

Drop me a line at janetkvammen@rclas.com

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