Thursday, December 1, 2016





Due to personal issues this project and all others associated with Kind of a Hurricane Press are closed indefinitely.  All work that has already been published will remain live on the site.  All work that was accepted but has not been published is now released back to the author.  All print copies and issues will remain available through their current sales channels.

Monday, July 25, 2016

A Poem by Rick Hartwell


Neighborhood Cemetery

Fascinated by the flurry and sudden fury of wild birds
fighting over breakfast seeds set out every morning,

Their antics invigorate the day infusing it with a will
to carry on at least one more revolution of the world.

Frequently seen is the shimmer of two or three birds
resembling sparrows in all but their fashion apparel.

They may be the bastard descendants of the sylvan-
green parakeet lost to the backyard of the neighbor.

Sated for the moment, four breakfasters now make
morning ablutions in a birdbath with two voyeurs,

One lime green, observing from on the ivied fence,
while the balance of the flock gather on the feeder,

Or under it as seeds rain down in a squall, while
three-toed feet tiptoe on the graves of their fallen,

Interred under popsicle-crosses made by children
after burying depredations by an adolescent hawk.



Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher living in Southern California.  Like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, he believes that the instant contains eternity.  He has been published in Birmingham Arts Magazine, Cortland Review, Mused, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Everyday Fiction, Everyday Poets, Poppy Road Review (selected as Best of the Net, 2011), Torrid Literature Journal (inducted into the Hall of Fame, 2013), Synchronized Chaos (selected as Best of the Net, 2013), and others, both print and online, as well as several anthologies.  He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com





Saturday, July 23, 2016

A Poem by Maria A. Arana


Road Atlas

vacation ideas
pour from leafs
filled with places
never seen

mountains reach peaks
of a thousand or more feet
buildings circle streets
like lighthouses

beckoning all to watch
water fountains
spray mist
on children's faces

colorful lights
surround cities
unless peace and quiet
is what's needed

docks, cliffs, and lakes
are there for the picking
and animals too rare
to experience

approach visitors
for a bag full
of special treats
let ostriches be friends

the road is paved
with veins and arteries
on a map they breathe life
along the coast and inland

labeled
so destinations
can be reached
mangled

so trails
can be followed
so one day
that atlas is you



Maria A. Arana is a teacher, writer, and poet.  You can find her at http://rainingvoices.blogspot.com




Thursday, July 21, 2016

Two Poems by Vicki Gabow


Beneath the Old Cherry Tree

Upon old homestead high atop the hill,
life mixed with soil -- scattered 'round --
beneath the old cherry tree,
grandma rests.

Marking time with white-grey ash
she sees the changing seasons
just as every year before.

Beneath the old cherry tree
spread among the wildflowers
her nurturing influence lives on.

Upon the hill
I sit, beneath the old cherry tree
sensing grandma's presence here abides.
Knowing one day, I too will be scattered
upon this farmland
beneath the old cherry tree, high atop the hill.



Morning Brood

An overgrown thicket
shelters a mother and her young
as spring rains drench the world
all 'round.

This foggy morn spent
wandering in forest dense and earthy
eases my troubled mind.  Though
cold and damp seep into the forest floor,
I linger here for clarity.

Over her brood, she hovers;
a nest lined in fur
with kits nestled close.  The doe
holds out against the rain.

As I happen by her little
huddle, I catch a glimpse
knowing full well she sees.
Though no threat I pose, she tenses
ready to dart and flee; I turn away
rerouting my journey home.

I'll not cause you stir
on such a day as this; my solace
found among the trees and wild undergrowth.
To the business of keeping warm, I leave you in peace
having sought and found mine within your home.




Vicki Gabow is a high school teacher by day and a storyteller, poet, and painter by night.  In her spare time, she enjoys communing with nature, bird watching, crocheting, and making a glorious mess in her studio.  She lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with her husband, Dan and two cats, Zoey and Doodle.




Tuesday, July 19, 2016

A Poem by Lance Sheridan


Yet the fog shall rise, and many blackened wings shall wane

To light upon branch and twig yet not to rest,
but into silence--
feathers unfed from wind,
wings hemmed in the stillness of mist and water;
soft, rippling waves search
for the shore where languid pleasure fades.

In the midday, perhaps, one lust, one dream--
to fly,
for small voices to be heard stringing through
the fog,
bend ye wings on these, on hopes. . .
or shall we sate obedient.

Yet (surely) the fog shall rise, and many blackened
wings shall wane . . .
soon, crowned with grey feathers,
and cold wind with icy fingers--
thrusting a hand before the lifted flight
(if thus it be, in a drop of time).





Saturday, July 16, 2016

Two Poems by Lyn Lifshin


North of Cotton Wood

               rose lichen
                    gamble oak
                         globe mallow

               bent in rain
                    blue lupine
                    juniper mistletoe

     it rains and keeps raining

these rocks
               pulled from each other

     two million years ago

          wrenched like a woman
whose child is grabbed

               on a cattle car

                    smashed into stone

her eyes, streaked
     like tonight's sky

   a Monday, all sipapu,
     a spirit entrance
          into the underworld



Arizona Ruins

Past Mogollon River
          the limestone ruins
scrape it with your finger
                    and the floor breaks

                              The talc
                    must have dusted
          their dark
bodies as they squatted on these
          floors grinding
mesquite and creosote

No one knows
          where they went
                    from the cliffs
          with their
                    earth jars and sandals

Or if they
cursed the
          desert moon
                    as they wrapped
their dead
          babies
                    in bright cloth
                              and jewels.

2

Now cliff swallows
          nest in the mud
                   where the Sinaqua
          lived
                   until water ran out

High in these white cliffs
          weaving yucca and cotton
                    How many nights did they listen
                                        for cougar
                    as they pressed the wet
                             rust clay
                    into bowls
          they walked
200 miles to trade in Phoenix
          before it was time to leave

40 years
before Columbus

3

Noon in the
caves

          it is summer the
                    children are sleeping

The women
          listen to a story
          one of them has heard
          of an ocean

                    Deerflesh dries in the sun
          they braid
willow stems
          and don't look up

When she
is done
          they are all
stoned on what could come
                    from such water

It is cool and dark
          inside here

                    This was the place

4

The others
have gone to find
salt and red
          stones for earrings

climb down

                    To look for lizards
          and nuts he

          takes the girl he
wants
          for the first time

                    Her blood cakes
                              on the white chalk
floor

                    Her thighs

                              will make a bracelet
                                        in his head

5

Desert bees
          fall thru the wind
                    over the pueblos
                              velvet ash and barberry

They still find

                                                                    bodies
          buried in the wall
                               a child's bones
                    wrapped in yucca leaves
                              and cotton

bats fly thru the
          ruins now
                    scrape the charred
          walls white

                              The people left
                    the debris of their lives here
          arrows, dung
                               And were buried
                    with the bright
          turquoise they loved
                    sometimes carved
          into animals and birds





Lyn Lifshin has published over 140 books and chapbooks and edited three anthologies of women's writing including Tangled Vines that stayed in print 20 years, And Ariadne's Thread from HBJ, and Unsealed Lips, from Capra Press.  She has several books from Black Sparrow books:  Cold Comfort, Before It's Light, Another Woman Who Looks Like Me.  Her web site, www.lynlifhsin.com, shows the variety of her work from the equine books, The Licorice Daughter:  My Year with Ruffian and Barbara:  Beyond Brokenness, to the most recent book:  Secretariat:  The Red Freak, The Miracle, all from Texas Review Press and on Amazon, as all her other books are.  Recent books about dance include:  Ballroom, Knife Edge and Absinthe:  The Tango Poems.  Other new books include:  For the Roses, poems for Joni Mitchell, All the Poets Who Touched Me, Living and Dead All True, Especially the Lies.  Most recently:  Girl Goes Into the Woods from New York Quarterly Books; Malala, from Poetic Matix; Tangled as the Alphabet:  The Istanbul Poems from NightBalletand out most recently from Glass Lyre Press:  Femme Eterna:  Enheducanna, Scheherazade and Nefertiti.  Forthcoming books include Degas' Little Dancer, Through Stained Glass, and Maple.  She has given readings and workshops around the country and has had fellowships to Yaddo, Millay Colony and MacDowell colony.  She is the recipient of many awards including Bread Loaf scholarships, The Kerouac Prize and a New York State Caps grant, etc.



Friday, July 15, 2016

A Poem by Jean Louise Monte


Ladybugs are Worth the Foxtails

It's hard to
walk the
labyrinth
when the
foxtails
are thick
from the rain
and their
stickers embed
themselves
in the hem
of my jeans.

I ought
to weed,
except the
ladybugs
are here
relishing
the foxtails,
metamorphosing
on the weedy
stalks, and climbing
on my hands
as I meditate.



Jean Louise Monte lives in Southern California with her husband and four furry children.  She is the author of one book of poetry, Leaves, Like Party Ornaments.  Her work has been published in California Quarterly, Avocet, Jellyfish Whispers, Life As An [Insert Label Here], and several anthologies.