81. Inkblots: Janet Buck janet buck lives in the Pacific Northwest and teaches compositionand literature at the university level. In 1998 and 1999, she http://www.inkblotsmag.com/biographies/buckj.html

Janet Buck lives in the Pacific Northwest and teaches composition and literature at the university level. In 1998 and 1999, she has received numerous creative writing awards and been a featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Poetry Today Online, Vortex, Conspire, Poetry Cafe, Dead Letters, the storyteller, Poetry Heaven, Athens City Times, Poetik License, 3:00 AM e-zine, Poetry Superhighway, and Carved in Sand. Her poetry, poetics, and humor have appeared in and hundreds of journals world-wide. Strawberry Nipples, which focuses primarily on the role of writing in coping with a disability. Barbara Benepe, editor and publisher of and The Green Tricycle, comments on the poet’s work in a recent review: "Buck's strength is her perseverance and focused analysis of human sufferingfrom the inside looking out. Everyone faces a demon or two in the course of a lifebut not everyone has the skill to write about it in such an evocative way. Buck draws the reader into her very soul and we experience her suffering as if it were our own. Janet Buck's outstanding talent succeeds where others stumble. She runs headlong into her personal cauldron, screaming LIFE! and we're there, with herevery step of the way." Fiction and Poetry: Poetry The Crumbless Breadline Typhoid Fever Differences Adano's Bell in Syllables 8-Tracks of a Sinking Ship Online Magazines Potpourri The Ethical Spectacle Carved in Sand A Room without Walls ... The Dragonfly Review Inkblots Magazine is a production of The Dreamsbay Company

82. Catalyzer Poetry: Janet I. Buck janet buck's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in CrossConnect, Kimera,2River View, Stirring Magazine, The Adirondack Review, Stride Magazine, Steel http://www.catalyzerjournal.com/buckbio.htm

Janet I. Buck Bio Janet Buck's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in CrossConnect, Kimera, 2River View, Stirring Magazine, The Adirondack Review, Stride Magazine, Steel Point Quarterly, Poetry Magazine.com, Offcourse, Southern Ocean Review, Born Magazine, Facets, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, The Paumanok Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Avatar Review, and a variety of other print and internet publications. She is a two-time Pushcart Nominee , a recent recipient of The H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence , and one of six winning poets in the Kota Press Anthology Contest . In April 2000, Janet's poem "Acrylic Thighs" was featured at The United Nations Exhibit Hall in New York City. The piece was paired with original artwork, translated into five languages and sent on tour to France, Japan, Brazil, Vietnam, and Australia. In the year 2001, Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in The Montserrat Review, The American Muse, The Carriage House Review, Runes: A Review of Poetry, Rockhurst Review, Poetry Bay , and dozens of journals world-wide. She is the author of four collections of poetry. For links to more of her work, visit:

83. Conspire- Poetry- Janet Buck janet buck. Dirty Dancing My nose is really half a leg. Standing out likestranded cars beside deserted roads. The Wizard of Odd. I wanna go home. http://www.conspire.org/archive/p020104.html

Janet Buck Dirty Dancing My nose is really half a leg. Standing out like stranded cars beside deserted roads. The Wizard of Odd. I wanna go home. To more than merely driftwood bones like worry sticks in engines of an aching soul. A scarecrow leaning in the wind. Your eyes that rain with pity’s fire. Third class tickets to romance. Without the grace and gossamers that flutter in the evening shade. Waxen smiles and passes to the masquerade and theaters of pain. Dirty Dancing slapped my face and hit me hard, right between the satin thighs that never were. With jealousy like forest fires that run across a bed of hay. I might have skated on a pond. I might have danced on marble dreams. And here I sit in prairie grass, just waiting for the flame. Charades This empty page is feeling like a broken box or mattress springs that make an awful noise at night. The secrecy is leprosy. Worms in lieu of butterflies. Missing yet another wing like siding from the barn of dreams. Another round of knives and pain. Helicopters stirring up the quiet air. Double-parked for tragedy and looking for a china cup to hold the streams of tears. D.C. al and not so Fine. Planks of fear that bounce me all around the room. A drowning beetle on its back. Beds of coals to look around and see the veins of scars. Musty curtains always drawn. Pillows on the prison bed like shepherds for a flock of sheep. And when I wake from surgery I’ll roll my stump across the page like soggy butts of cigarettes. Spin a smile in spiderwebs and play another of round of life. It’s really just Charades.

84. Three Candles: Janet Buck janet buck Parting Drapes. Poet's Biography janet buck is a sixtimePushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.threecandles.org/poetry/jbuck2.html

Janet Buck Parting Drapes Parting Drapes knowing the book would close, music would stop, a pulse would quit, and you would be left in a room surrounded by empty chairs? your hands were always drawing them. Back and forth, the steel screeched as if it were an oil rig plumbing a desert for hope. You messed with even valances, tugging at puffs as if this skirt could ever hang over the going bone. Inviting in the hiding sun, blue batiks of fading skies becomes commitment's old career. You sign forever in the sand; someone kicks it in your eyes. All palms are idle in the end, tortilla husks that speak of curdled, passing meals. Little scraps of ivory moons bequeathed to soil, then covered up. Rage drops anchors in the mud and dying sails the fitful sea, testing every rope we own. You kept his college photograph touched the glass as if to print it with a wish. Fed him ice chips, spoons of yogurt, watched the drips deliver fluid to the sand, where every clock had lost its dial. Adoring him was not a chore even when his face was ash.

85. Three Candles: Janet Buck janet buck Two Poems War's Dominos Crushed Paperbacks. Poet's Biographyjanet buck, Ph.D. is the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.threecandles.org/archive/jbuck.html

Janet Buck: Two Poems War's Dominos It's been three months since undoing every fairy tale we've ever read of innocence. Puff the magic dragon cranes still dig in 24-hour shifts. One man's head on blaming platters feeds the growl of revenge, draws the pus of tragedy like flies to feces in a barn. The war Jacuzzi's blood is warm. Sadness needs a place to stew. Its dominos go slat to slat. Bombs have babies. Bigger bugs eat smaller bugs. a spreading rash of guts and rain. The CIA is rifling through is pubic hair around a rape. Death begets another death like gnat wings multiply and eat. Snowfall in its chastity seems dandruff from a lock-less scalp. Suffer's tongue is like a match that lights all candles in a church. Grief makes balls and aims the ice. Justice is a bent spoon. Its metal tired. But I am still hungry and hurt, rubbing the white coals of my eyes embedded in the unconscionable. We look to Christmas for renewal, hug a little tighter now even if our tendons tear. I cannot think of Santa's hat down chimney slots without the plague of New York ash.

86. Janet Buck, Poetry, April Wired Art From Wired Hearts Wired Hearts' Poetry Raw Silk. by janet buck. Gallows of Gallo. janet buckBIO janet buck teaches writing and literature at the college level. http://wiredheart.hispeed.com/april99/janet_buck_poetry.html

Wired Hearts' Poetry: Raw Silk by Janet Buck Gallows of Gallo Moths that follow closet lights, I worshipped booze for twenty years. The gallows of Gallo was a nice way of dressing agony for a sit-down dinner Ether on a canker sore, the welcome numb came sliding in. The “nothing really matters clique” always had a place to sit. But bugs to bulbs, as answers go, sleeps in sweaters of our flesh. I learned from you to wrap emotion’s corpses well in zip-lock bags and stuff them in the freezer’s well. Its septic scent that swallowed air and held the ax away from thumbs. The cummerbund of “feel not,” a tarp I learned from you to lay below the bark of slivered pain; it kept the weeds from coming up. The Pathology Report You line up the world from purely scientific points of view. Dead people look calm, something I’m not in the rusty vice of agony. Your living made on wings of “after suffer,” not the cruel act itself. Pat-downs of these private snakes will always slither in the dark. When hurt knocks hard and rings the bell

87. Janet Buck, Wired Art From Wired Hearts, by janet buck. A Petrie Dish of Wondering. janet buck. Bio janet buck hasa Ph.D. in English and teaches writing and literature at the college level. http://wiredheart.hispeed.com/july2000/buck_poetry.html

Wired Art from Wired Hearts Raw Silk Poetry by Janet Buck A Petrie Dish of Wondering I wonder about back then if I could have patched torn jeans, asserted my seasons of change, leavened what I thought was garnered wisdom then, without destroying us. If I could have stayed an owl, not coyotes howling fuller at the moon. Back-seated my words, the rebel’s urge, to leave the crook of a daddy’s arm. If my silence and keeping the lids on Tupperware graves could have saved us from the great dissolve. But in a poem I doubt. Take emotion’s polygraph. Come up with pages of divorce its dowry simply self returned. The loose belt of a stanza has more space less Irish lace than I would like. But I’ve lost weight since us. I like this leaner side of me. The Mad Schoolhouse The museum floor had black pock marks from all those heels scratching at some surface thing, digging for some paradigm like red ants comb a crucifix. Brillo of hubris in grating roars. Conversation was in the paint, but it was dry and set and left grease wax floating over soup that someone should have spooned and stirred. It was all so old to nine year sprints of innocence. No serpents lay in circled fire. Critique was a thing for Sunday School. In the wild percussions, she wandered from piece to piece. A blue jay coated with chimney soot banging her wings against warm glass. Learned of craven dreams redressed. A photo of Athens before dry ruins. Spackle in nude fingerprints.

88. Janet Buck, Bosom Caves HOME ARCHIVE SUBMISSIONS SUBSCRIBE CONTACT MASTHEAD EVENTS LINKS ±ABOUT In this issue Pickles Petrson Smiths A Good Life http://www.elevenbulls.com/buck.html

Bosom Caves Janet Buck HOME ARCHIVE SUBMISSIONS ... ABOUT In this issue: Pickles Petrson Smiths Jenna Kalinsky Living Backwards in Kentucky Ron G. Dilla Three Installations Jenn Schmidt Paintings Richard Ellis Eleven Bulls To sign up for the Eleven Bulls mailing list, please enter your email address below: "We took them both," they said in a casual tone as if they might give them back. As ether ebbed, the avalanche of pain increased. Head to toe seemed string-less harps. Hallmark cards were pinned to walls. They restrained her arms to the rails, so she wouldn't go looking for tissues of dream now steeping in formaldehyde. Her husband sat, his sweaty shirt sticking to a plastic chair, waving a wilted bouquet at her eyes, their wagon wheels imbued with rust. All his gears were oiled with prayers, moot passages of promises to love her just the same and all. Bosom caves were ticker-taped with bandages.

89. Janet I. Buck - Lifting The Skirt Poem. THE LIFTED SKIRT. by. janet I. buck. . janet buck is a threetimePushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.literarypotpourri.com/05_Apr/po_apr_01.html

home Poem THE LIFTED SKIRT by Janet I. Buck After your death, I stare at your bed robot in a stony igloo wanting to trade the chill for warmth. I smell your hair in pillow conch, in feathers of abandonment that take a fragile world by storm. I look for oysters in a clam, for pearls on a broken chain. Mourning's ugly odyssey keeps turning up the slaughtered dream. Beneath the skirt sit tumbleweeds dented slippers, empty boxes, spoons and forks and tea cups with a lipstick mark that used to sue a cloudy day with stripes of sugared grenadine. A messy maze of cords and wires all attached to nothing much but sockets of recurring grief. A cactus counting water drops. I finger webs for widows which I know will bite or drive me to a whiskey glass. Run across the lint of lonely decked in golden lion fleece. A stethoscope through which I hear my clawing heart, fossils of a rose's womb that never made it to a vase. The waffled mattress bears your prints, urine-stained with facts of time no catheter of need could change.

90. Licorice Teeth: Janet Buck Licorice Teeth by janet buck. The color of death showed in your smile.Licorice Poem by janet buck of East Meadow, New York. Author's http://www.wilmingtonblues.com/num_12/26_jblicorice.html

Licorice Teeth by Janet Buck The color of death showed in your smile. Licorice teeth in gumdrop rows, hint of storms a body shoulders waiting for the mocking rain. Hair in cotton candy puffs, crumbled conrbread in a breeze, a sack of flour at counter's edge leaning into beveled grave. Tethers of my pressing love would hold back, strip-search will and hand this world the tarnished penny of an hour. One last ride on Ferris wheels I thought was fair not some kind of winter joke like promrose boutonnieres in snow. I called your name like estrogen draws dogs to claw a neighbor's fence. Digging through the mud and marsh for some strong instinct tied to puzzles tied to time. Hated all this "weighing in" you called the open mouth of mortal stepping through a closing door.

91. Lectures From A Storm: Janet Buck Lectures From a Storm by janet buck. I heard you, say cymbalsof rain on tin. I Poem by janet buck of Medford, Oregon. Author's http://www.wilmingtonblues.com/num_17/35_jbstorm.html

Lectures From a Storm by Janet Buck "I heard you," say cymbals of rain on tin. I rode the globe like a smelly horse, galloped through destiny's fire. I used the river to sleep. What do you have to say for yourself? What speech is better than this? No sentence can mimick my sound. I wetted the desert and left. I nourished the poppies. I added a quart to the well. Come away with my caroler's note. When you have succumbed to a grave, I will be your olive oil brushed on in spite of your hands. Poem by Janet Buck of Medford, Oregon. Author's Bio: Janet Buck is a three-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. In 2002, her work is scheduled to appear in New Works Review, Recursive Angel, Poetry Magazine.com, The Montserrat Review, and dozens of journals worldwide. Contact Janet Buck current issue back issues submissions ... editor@wilmingtonblues.com

92. The Green Tricycle: Traveling Light, With Janet I. Buck Traveling Light with janet I. buck Table of Contents. http://greentricycle.com/travel/traveling.html

Traveling Light with Janet I. Buck: Table of Contents Home Welcome Contents Contact Us ... Site Search Please Support The Green Tricycle through Our Affiliate Links: Thank You! Tight Spots A new motorhome and two optimistic but inexperienced travelers and a dog meet their match on the narrow streets of San Francisco. The Theme Park Roughing it in the Rogue River National Forest, Buck-style. Starving Poets Get the inside scoop on what it really means to be a poet. Pie Pans Join Janet in the kitchen as she wrestles an unsuspecting apple pie into the oven. Janet visits the Siskiyou National Forest with disasterous results. Get out the Calamine lotion! [ Home ] [ Welcome ] [ Contents ] [ Contact Us ] ... Cayuse Press

93. Feminista! V3n6 - Poetry By Janet Buck Poems by janet buck Nazi Lampshades College, for the most part, hadforgettable stones Milton, Tolstoy, Shakespeare suns. Gibraltars http://www.feminista.com/v3n6/buck.html

94. TH/5: Janet Buck janet buck, If Graves Could Write a Diary janet buck is a threetimePushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. http://www.tinamou2.com/th/5/bios/jbbio.html

Janet Buck If Graves Could Write a Diary Janet Buck is a three-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Three Candles, PoetryBay, Red River Review, Artemis, The Pedestal Magazine, Runes, Stirring, Poetry Magazine.com, Southern Ocean Review, CrossConnect, Offcourse, The American Muse , and hundreds of journals world-wide. In 2001 and 2002, Buck has received awards from Kota Press, Sol Magazine, Kimera, L'Intrigue, and The Critical Poet. Back to bios

95. Janet Buck janet buck Last Oranges This day's sun could well be the last orangein a torn bag. What will I do with its pulp? My eyes forked http://www.atomicpetals.com/jbuck1.htm

var TlxPgNm='jbuck1'; Janet Buck Last Oranges This day's sun could well be the last orange in a torn bag. What will I do with its pulp? My eyes forked open, staring at the pitch of fleeting night. Owlish onions in a forest hooting at the nebulous. Determined to find the dust a pan. My broom is wet from the sugar of summer rain and love's elusive miracle I've seen and held and stashed in pockets when you leave. I roll into the warm spot of wrinkled sheets. A tiny crater in the moon bequeathed to me by scents of lingered aftershave. I dare not ask how long we'll last, arguing against our deaths. To wallow there is quicksand for a pensive dawn. Some moment in the giant burn, I'll taste our cookies crumbling. Coronach and elegy of what a daisy just might say, if it were to stop the wilt, count the flow of petals stripped, their ivory bellies lying in a bed of ice, inert as snapshots of the sea. Onion Girl by Gary Martin Next Top Contents Home

96. Janet Buck janet buck Distance Dust. Money's presence swims to shore, a substitute forbeing there. Salmon have to fight a stream to hatch a gram of tenderness. http://www.moriapoetry.com/janet.html

Janet Buck Distance Dust Money's presence swims to shore, a substitute for being there. Salmon have to fight a stream to hatch a gram of tenderness. I migrate to your healthy arms. Shot like ducks before I land. When the phone rings once in moss green moons that still stir hope, I think a sister comes attached. Tandem breaths of splitting suffer need a little oxygen. My needs and errands on your list, a pier in sight of slipping ships. But these are mere cathedral dreams garbage ties for empty sacks. We'll turn our heads in helplessness just discuss new kitchen tile. Distance dust and dildos of a platitude are always thick in surface chat. I'll never beg for helping hands. You cannot train their waterfalls. Asylum A stairway's hill, Mt. Everest. Except the snow is rows of eyes. The poster child of Health Disaster Magazine. Stoic tunnels come up short. The tandem breath of sharing suffer always guides the river ink. Building homes from rotted trees the teepee, tap, and tribal dance. I'm quarantined by "set apart" liberated some by quills;

97. Janet Buck 2 janet buck Dirty Ice We both janet buck is a threetime Pushcart Nomineeand the author of four collections of poetry. Her work http://www.niederngasse.com/poetry/buck_2.html

Janet Buck Dirty Ice "We both wear lust and failed love on our lapels." –Anthony Robinson I pretty much trashed any emblem reminiscent of the moon– its wide eye closed, conditioned to the firm eclipse that followed it. This joining dream, two puddles of hunger that merge– I crossed it in a cheap romance, then slammed the book as if it were a poker chip my fingers couldn't trust. I rubbed the genie's slippery head– still no effervescent light. It strikes me as impossible, like monarchs or a hummingbird, two foreigners on subway cars. Their small and wispy charms, bafflement and flitting grace tattling on voluminous grief. Your touch is oil soap on a cracked old purse, displacing continuous void. Make its petal stay, not split. It's important you see your shape, standing for warmth. It says: I know, I know a glacier was here– but rivers exist down south. It's crucial we cradle the whispering dawn, wear its waning jelly red, invest ourselves in what remains. Amen for muscles and reach. Your hand in the crest of my back– a crocus pushing through dirty ice. Broken Notes A step is a curse

98. Janet Buck: Another Lecture Bites The Dust janet buck Another Lecture Bites the Dust. I am janet buck, your compositioninstructor. If you're here for Math 101, we're all in trouble. http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc/lynx/lynx912.html

Janet Buck: Another Lecture Bites the Dust School resumes on the tail of a parching summer, walls have fresh paint, and doorknobs of Central Hall turn with the familiar glitch of first-day jitters. My students are thirsty and afraid and wonder why I don't walk straight. I limp my limp with great care on fresh-waxed floors; when the bell sounds, the silence starts. My intention was, as I have for twenty years, to casually mention the fact that I am an amputee and pole vault quickly to issues that really define my life and vision. My intention was to waltz awkwardly around my difference and let my demons sleep. But, as gestures go, that was today an impossible reach. `A missing limb and assorted physical deformities are a large part of who I am. I learned this from a fountain pen. I write to process and release issues of my disability, my love life, my family, my human threads. I could tell you that I have had stacks of major surgeries, limp a little, and am otherwise unaffected by the trappings of fate, but that would be like stuffing a whole box of Kleenex down the toilet and expecting to have no use whatsoever for the plunger stashed in the back of a dusty garage. The page has taught me that coming to the center of self can be the same as cooking a feast for dinner guests; it is something to be shared. I have often wondered why fate saddled my horse with the straps and stirrups of disabled, what the `purpose' of this struggle is. Writing about disabled indeed living it is a naked experience and there are no bullet-proof vests or toupees to protect one's flesh from judgment guns, unless you count platitudes and politically correct armbands, which seem to me to be convenient evasions of emotion's hot potatoes. Keeping the lid on our burdens will almost always back-fire. Withdrawal, no matter how flannel its sheets, is a time-bomb ticking in the background, a pair of falsies that will eventually drop. It is the slug of silence that destroys the garden.

99. What's New 1 Scrivener's Pen Tsur. Offcourse The Horsethief's Journal. A Little Poetry FeaturesJanet I. buck Reading Divas. Mississippi Review Fall 2002 CrossConnect. http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html

E-Mail Janet at: jbuck22874@aol.com You are visitor number:

100. Buy Or Sell A Home Or Property In Bucks County, PA A realtor serving the Newtown, Bucks County area in PA. http://www.users.voicenet.com/~clare/

Janet Clare, Realtor ReMax Advantage 820 Township Line Rd. Yardley, PA 19067-4200 clare@voicenet.com Buy or sell a home or property in Bucks County, PA Find A Home or Property Sell Your Home Hello. My name is Janet Clare and I am a real estate agent who specializes in the Bucks County, Pennsylvania area. As a long-time twenty year resident of Bucks County, I know the area well. I'm also a mom who has raised three children here and watched them grow and progress through one of Bucks County's leading school districts. I offer the most personalized service available, with a no-pressure approach. My credentials include a background in the legal field, as well as two designations in real estate. I am a graduate of the Realtors Institute (GRI) and also an Accredited Buyers Representative (ABR). I welcome the opportunity to assist you in buying or selling your home or property in Bucks County, PA. Please contact me today! Janet Clare, Realtor clare@voicenet.com Useful Links: Click here to visit Bucks County Guides, Featured Homes, Mortgage Calculators, School Information, and much more!

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