Guest Rooms
The "guest rooms" are available for visits by guest poets. Visiting poets are encouraged to reveal their most
unusual and uncanny verses in the hopes that the "great epic" we are all contributing to will expand its
limits beyond our time and awareness. Guest poets retain all copyrights to their poems appearing on this site.

Some Haiku "to help save our lovely little blue and green planet".
Jack Barry is the latest in an ancient line of housepainter hermits believed to reside just
out of sight in the hills of Western Massachusetts. His haiku poems thread reverent paths
through a blaring present of rush hour traffic, isolating technology, and oblivious opulence that so often dominates our culture.

Jack's book of haiku, Swamp Candles, was published in March 2006 by Down-To-Earth Books of Ashfield, MA. It is available for purchase at The Bookends bookstore in Florence,
MA, and also at the Ashfield Hardware Store in Ashfield, MA.

Several Guest poems in the troubador suite
J. Glenn Evans is a Seattle poet who has lived a long life and contributed volumes of writing to the one big poem we are all contributing to. His works include "Wind In The Sky, Seattle Poems", and "Buffalo Tracks". He has also written a novel entitled "Broker Jim". In addition, he operates the PoetsWest website, reading series, and poetry radio show on KSER 90.7. People like "Jack" are indespensible to the spread of poetry about the land. He is part Cherokee and is extremely proud of his Indian heritage that has taught
him how to live in intervibrational harmony with the earth.

Extremadura

Anthony Mottla is an extremely talented architect who has designed some signature buildings and parks in Waxahachie, Texas, and the surrounding environs. His fascination with the Roman arch and its contribution to human vision appears in poems he wrote during his early years at sea searching for his "raison d'etre, stopping at various Meditteranean ports, a few islands and late night shore leaves dropping worn out taut identities like gold football helmets worn while wringing his motorcycle handles in front of brothel doorways or pausing at old friend's house in search of something unidentifiable, but always new. And then shipping out at dawn, "o may the gods favor us with an apple blossom perfumed wind." But back then his name was Tony Mottla. We should all know him, for at least a second. I love him like a brother.