Sunday, July 30, 2017

Ndaba Sibanda Returns

This evening Ndaba Sibanda will introduce us to the Cool Crooners of Bulawayo, a jazz band from Zimbabwe.  This poem is also part of the 1940s contest.  The band is depicted above.

Unwinding With The Cool Crooners Of Bulawayo

One lazy afternoon I listened to a light track,

It cruised into my ears and heart and crooned

Its way down my spine and vibrated my legs

Till they made some calculated cool swings.

 The radio personality intercepted

The mellifluousness of it and said,

“Welcome, welcome to the music

And the magic of the Cool Crooners”.

The Cool Crooners were formed in 1998

By longtime friends -Abel, Lucky and Ben;

In 2001 their album -Blue Sky-about a South African jail

‘Inside of which one only sees the blue sky’-- cooled ears.

Their melodies are mesmerizing and soothing,

They mix African rhythms with western music;

They blend SiNdebele, SiZulu and KiSwahili --

Wowing the audiences with their classy voices.

Foot-tapping their way into international stardom,

Sweet smart men in suits, singing Bulugwe Lami,

(The fate of ‘my’ tattered trousers haye haye!)

These young old boys` laid back music is cool!


Bulugwe Lami is SiNdebele for “My pair of trousers”

Haye haye! means “hey hey!”

The Depth Of Tenderness

The music flew furiously

at times tickling her

massaging her

dragging her

sailing away

with her mind

into its own

little lake

of the 1940s

into its tempo

of tenderness

and wildness

Sinking deep into

her inner self

as if to gauge

the depth

of her love

for it with

a  pretty



it rang

in her ears

tearing them apart

it ravaged through

her heart--

ripping it open

Her eyes were bright

signifying the music`s light

those were loving eyes

filled with dreamy tears

streaming and screaming

across the smoothness

of her cheeks and neck

The Dance Of Love

In all the noises that bombard one`s life there is music to savour—

If only one could keep out the uproar and roar into the harmonies.

That music needs to be identified, acknowledged and appreciated--

The uproar has to be minimized if it cannot be eradicated.

I will dance to the beat of the music I hear--

The noises will not drown me in their mess.

 The rays of the sun will enliven the floor –

The blessings will radiate too.


 Dancing Couple

Once through with their marriage vows, they shone like stars,

Their dance looked simple yet it was sophisticated,

It was a sight to behold. The decor was fantastic,

The onlookers reveled in the activities of the day.

They waltzed into the hearts of many people,

Wearing wonderful traditional regalia,

They sang and leapt into the past

And future in style


Ndaba`s work is featured in the voluminous Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski. His other work of art is found in the forthcoming book titled Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press.

Ndaba did not mention his recent book Football of Fools:  This is not the only book he has published this year.  The Dead Must Be Sobbing is a novel:

Here is a link to "Bulugwe Lami," the song that Ndaba mentions in his poem:

"Blue Sky" is the title cut of their 2001 album:

"Cell Phone" is about a man talking to the woman he wants to marry:

You might want to see the Cool Crooners live:

I'll finish with their "I Van Enkulu":


Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Claudine Nash's Poems about Water and Drought

Water and drought can be powerful metaphors, as poet/psychologist Claudine Nash shows us this evening.

The Stream

Bend 1

You are sitting in a drought,
wounded and needful. Dry.
You offer yourself a burr
and shard of glass. When
you open your mouth, out
slips a pebble.

Bend 2 

You are sitting in a drought,
parched. Needful. You think
"my poor wounded one,"
but then a coarse stream
of "shoulds" spills from
your  lips. You spit out
a shell.

Bend 3

You are sitting in a drought,
dry and needful. Silent.
You slip a hand over this
tender heart of your own

and out pours a stream.

A Beautiful Rain

You feel like a drought, yes,

but the soil does not crack
with your footsteps

nor do your bare feet
kick up dust.

Your breath does not draw
water from the dirt

or cause words
to crumble between
your teeth.

There is earth in you, yes,

but not sand. Not rock,
not desert, nothing sharp
or arid. Your edges

breathe and bend.
You pulse

in all the right

There is a pool in your
heart, deep and sustaining.

Nothing has withered,
no one will drown here

or shrivel to bone.

There is storm
in your veins, yes,
but not a dry gust.

It is a beautiful rain, and 
somewhere beneath it,

a field of wild grass and
tulips is spinning itself
to life.

(Previously published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems from the Garden)

Sometimes Before It Storms

Sometimes before
it storms,

I pack a satchel
of peaches and
call myself  Beloved.

I say such things as
“Beloved, you need
water” or “My beloved,
let’s go to the sea.”

I do not fret the mist,

it is a beach after all
and moisture is inherent
in the process. Besides,

a good peach always
pleases me.

I am content to let
the waves have their way
with my breath
until my lungs fall

and rise with their

I become
my own term of
endearment then
breathe myself
to life.

Dear, you
give me such grief
for disappearing
into the ocean,

but tell me,

without this,

how else could
I ever offer you
any fruit?

(Previously published in Peacock Journal)

Claudine Nash is an award-winning poet whose collections include The Wild Essential (Aldrich Press, forthcoming), Parts per Trillion (Aldrich Press, 2016) and The Problem with Loving Ghosts  (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in numerous publications including Asimov’s Science Fiction, BlazeVOX, Cloudbank and Haight Ashbury Literary Journal among others. She is also a practicing psychologist.

Miles Davis' "Amandla" makes me think of the desert:

"Catembe" is also from Amandla, a late album by Miles Davis.

As is "Mr. Pastorius":

I'll finish with a live version of his "Human Nature":

Friday, July 21, 2017

Bea Garth Enters the 1940s Contest

Tonight I'd like to post Bea Garth's tribute to Janis Joplin, an artist who has been honored more than once at The Song Is..  However, Bea's tribute is remarkable, for it imagines Janis being alive today.


What happened to you?
You should be here now
with your gritty sardonic laugh
the way you’d tilt your head,
your wild plum colored hair, shawl and bangles.
The black sheep,
they called you ugly in your Texas high school,
you learned to go your own way,
discovering, to your surprise, your voice
belting out high raspy crescendos
transcending the angst of solitude.
What would you make of it,
the Now of Now,
the way the world
is spinning out of sync?
Would you be forever chasing
that elusive Other,
breaking boundaries
always searching for that impossible, quixotic One?
Or maybe just maybe by now
you finally found him or her,
your broken heart healing at last
as you curl up cat-like in the lap of genuine love
with a house, garden,
a horse in the barn out back
so you can go out for long rides
and all those grandkids.
I just can’t see you giving up though,
you’d have to sing
all that feeling bundled up
ready to explode from your soul
unable to put up with any bull,
the sincere angst of your cry
helping to heal this lowly sphere
with your sardonic insights,
you, our cantankerous Earth Mama,
with the wise beauty
of your wild penetrating eye
and scratchy, soul-shattering voice.

(written to Janis Joplin)
by Bea Garth

Here are a few more of Janis' songs.  I hope that these are not repeats from earlier entries!

The first is her "I Need a Man to Love": 

I have always liked "Flower in the Sun":

Here is her "One Night Stand":

I'll finish with "One Good Man":


Monday, July 17, 2017

Bill Cushing's Potpourri

Photo by Chris -- 2009

With this title, I think I must be watching too much Jeopardy! this summer.  Tonight I am posting a non-driving poem and several poems about water, all by Bill Cushing.  Even though the non-driving contest ended, as a non-driver, I am always happy to receive poems in this category.  I am also happy to receive poems about water as well.


While waiting
at the bus stop,
he approached,
asked for the time.

Once told, he recited
the bus schedule
            within that time frame
for both lines
that run
past here,


where they meet the outgoing driver.

“But I never really depend
on either one,” he said,

forgetting, I suppose,

that it was he
who asked me

for the time.

-- Bill Cushing


water slaps
my face
forcing my eyes
as we climb
                        to platform
            along the rocks
that form         an opening
not more than   a half-foot across
from that six-inch

            in steps
some jut out with
holes    in them

vines crawl
and—nourished by
                        water that
begin to
take root
as they
another base of rock

holding a stone
like an ax
as big
as my hand
and as thick
almost as flat
except for one
hard wart at
the broader end
other men
might have been
here using rocks
like this one
chipping them into tools
and weapons

this island
reminds one
of all things


-- Bill Cushing 
The poem above first appeared in Barbaric Yawp, and it is also part of Bill's book, Notes and Letters.


Slowly circling,
the pelican

drops like a stone
into water.

Then climbing the
air, he stops, and

with a single
motion of wings,

glides on the wind.

-- Bill Cushing

            for Joseph Conrad

I have always taken
the four a.m. watch:
those three hours before dawn when,
inhaling the moist sweetness
of a new day, we awake
and escape last night’s darkness,

leaving technology
to experience
quiet and primitive satisfaction.

The ocean rushing underneath,
its volume
dependent upon current hull speed,
spills a phosphorescent wake —
the only natural source of light
besides the moon.

Rolling up and down,
swaying into balance
on the balls of my feet while
cradling the warmth
of a mug’s contents.

an orange sliver appears
and grows, as the sun
finds the seam in the weld
that fixes sea to sky.

-- Bill Cushing

The poem above appeared in River Poets Journal and the UK anthology Along the Shore

If you go to this link, you can hear Bill read "At A Mountain Waterfall": 

To listen to "Sailing (for Joseph Conrad)," go to this link:

I had meant to post a video of "Music Isn't About Standing Still and Being Safe":

To finish up, here is some Afro-Peruvian jazz!

This video was actually recorded in LA:

I'll conclude with Tony Succar's TED Talk on Afro-Peruvian music:


Thursday, July 13, 2017

More with Will Mayo

A while back Will Mayo sent me some brief bios.  Arlo Guthrie was born in 1947, so I think I'll start with him.

Arlo Guthrie's Surprise Visitor 


Will Mayo

I met this gentleman, with his long brown hair and beard and trimmed down physique, backstage at one of his concerts back in 1984. He was very cordial and well mannered at my accidental interruption.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

I stood stock still. Surely, this, I presumed, must be somebody famous. I knew little of the matter then.

He then proceeded to walk onstage and rock the audience to the rafters. Neither one of us ever looked back.


Remembering One Long Past


Will Mayo

Still, it was the first President Bush who, when approached by a homeless man on his way to church asking, "Mr. President, will you pray for me?" , replied, "No, but come on in and you can pray for yourself."

So the President and the beggar sat praying in the church. Years passed. They came and left, came again and again. The beggar left a dollar each time in the collection plate drawing the envy of millionaires. They all stayed and prayed though the President eventually left office and moved away. But the beggar in the church remained. He stayed, became a part of the community.

One day, as it happens, several years later, the beggar died of cold and fright on a winter's bench. Word got around to the parish where he had prayed. The rector in particular was quite disturbed.

"Would anybody," he stammered, "Would anybody care to take up a collection for this poor man's burial?"

Monies flowed in across the River Styx in surpassing amounts. It was staggering to think how much this church, full of billionaires and patrons of the arts, cared for this little peasant. Staggering, too, was the tomb built for the man. It surpassed in grandeur many a monument in the nation's Capitol. Sunlight gleamed across the concrete surface and it was said that if there was a God in Heaven he smiled that day.

Funny thing, though. His name was a mystery, so they simply chiseled in "John," nothing else. It could be heard far off in their prayers, "...John...John...John..." And then there only remained the whispering wind.

Easter Sunday, 2017

Miss Dickinson Takes Up Her Pen 


Will Mayo

An explosion went about inside Emily's brain. A gun went off. A scream was heard in a neighboring house. She commenced to write. The world would never be the same again.

McCandless In The Wild 


Will Mayo

"Happiness is only real when shared," Alexander Supertramp said before he died in the land of ice and snow. The bear, the deer bore witness to the pain. And then they too went away.

Photo by Travis Mars -- 2006
In The Ruin Of Love


Will Mayo

Is there a ruin where there lies not love?
Where lovers have not made tryst
and fumbled at every button?
Where what has pleased the eye 
has not then too pleased the skin
as bodies wrapped to and fro
in the ruin of what once was and what will be?
There in the fumbling down ruin
lies many a lover's kiss
in the ruin of all that once was deemed holy.
So too do I taste you upon my lips
though you are not here
in the ruin of being,
in the decay of body and soul.
Here lies one man who once hoped, once dreamed
and now casts an eye another's way
and so then beholds another ruin.
It begins again.

I don't know if I've posted anything by Ted Curson.  I remember that he was a special guest at a gig I went to back in the 1980s.  The song he played that evening was "Graft and Corruption."  I remember him banging on a cowbell.

Here is his "Song of the Lonely One":

Another song of his is "LSD Takes a Holiday":

I'll finish with "Straight Ice" from The New Thing and the Blue Thing:


Monday, July 10, 2017

Welcome to Blanca Alicia Garza!

Tonight I'm thrilled that I have another poet who is new to The Song Is...  As her poems and bio reveal, she is not new to poetry, though.


She is clothed with an inner strength
and laughs without fear of the future.
eye shine, ignites sparks in my heart.
she judges none, and walks with grace.
Her dreams are in a technicolor palette
and lights her way through the darkness.
She adores dancing in the pouring rain
Blowing dandelions in summer breezes 
Talks to the moon about her eternal love 
She smiles as squirrels dance in trees,
loves spending time watching kids play.
Her dream was to be a great writer, but 
falling in love with a poet was her destiny.

A Bed of Earth

My time has come 
I was not ready 
But she does not forgive 
I'm here in this cold box
I wonder if I loved enough 
I can't feel the sun now 
and tear drops are falling 
watering thirsty soil 
I feel them all crying 
but I cannot hear at all; 
silence is just deafening. 
I have blessed peace and 
tranquility within my heart. 
Although my soul aches 
for those I left behind, 
I can feel a strong rhythm,
it is a much loved Mariachi
playing my favorite songs?
I'm singing now, so loud!
Don't be sad my loves
I'm in a wonderful place,
with roses in a bed of earth
tears and sadness are gone.

(Initially published on Indiana Voice Journal)

"Tattooed" by Thomas Leuthard, 2011

Flaming Wings

She had fire 
on her wings, 
and deep wounds 
in her heart, 
reborn like a phoenix 
from the burning 
ashes of Hell, 
she had a shattered soul 
and it was coming out 
through her eyes, 
warm and salty tears 
like an endless rain. 
But still she is not defeated, 
she'll wipe her tears and 
spread her wings wider, 
the time to soar even 
higher has come.

(Initially published on Whispers)

Bio: Blanca Alicia Garza is a Poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Her poems are published in the Poetry Anthologies, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", and "Dandelions in a Vase of Roses" now available at Blanca's work can be found in  The Poet Community, Whispers, The Winamop Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Raven's Cage Ezine, Scarlet Leaf Review as well as Birdsong Anthology 2016, Vol 1.

I've heard much about Carla Bley, but I've never actually listened to her music.  Here is her "Lawns" with Steve Swallow:

She often played with Charlie Haden.  Here is "Ballad of the Fallen" with a full roster of artists:

This is "Who Will Rescue With You?"

Here is a more recent recording with her trio:

I'll finish with her "Fleur Carnivore":

Friday, July 7, 2017

Welcome to Kim D. Bailey and S. Liam Spradlin!

This evening I'd like to post some engaging, heartfelt poems by a poetic power couple, Kim D. Bailey and S. Liam Spradlin.

Walnut Street Bridge

Why build a bridge?
Beams and planks fastened
together with iron rods.
A motionless frame stretched
like an accordion far
across a once empty space.
A Bridge -that has the same ending
for me as it does the old man
with a cane, as unshapely as his knees.
Why build a bridge?
a suspension of sorts stapled in the sky,
a long esophagus
swallowing its admirers who
dare to leave the safety called Land.
Where mankind is supposed to walk.
What if we were to be content
just being by the waters,
not over them?  I feel the entire bridge
give under the weight of each 
step I take. While I drawback my breath
as nearby reflections lean across the water.
My eyes capture the serenity of the moment
Like the mockingbird catches the wind.
I envision my reflection
seized by the waters below. Then I
am reminded how easily I am moved
by the smallest ripple.
Some boards where I now
stand have begun to rot.
I wonder how many hurried ankles
have twisted when a high heel gets stuck.
How many children have explored
these planks with tender and precarious
fingers, only to stand up crying
when a splinter is all they find.
I think about the few souls that have
unsettled the even surface below.
Were they overwhelmed with sadness?
Like the rhythm of a coiled anchor,
heaved overboard, slapping a corroded and
slippery chain all the way down.
I came here tonight to walk.
To walk across a bridge.
A bridge purposefully placed to take me
from one destination to another.
But I worry what I find will
be no different from what I left.
I sit down on a bench that
is not made for the curve
of my spine. I begin to
write without thinking. What
is holding me now? Is it the air? Or is it
my belief that something
solid hangs under me?
I cannot miss the cracks in this bridge,
they are everywhere I step.
If I could leap over these cracks then
I could leap over the bridge.
But I can't leap, I can barely jump.
The waters below carry drowned secrets
Misplaced by water and time.
Here great river. Here is a quarter.
Take me downstream till I sink.
Bury me in the mud, or inside
an old shoe that a young fisherman
will swear is a catfish. Let him
keep the quarter for his efforts.
I need to be moving now. My
fear of heights keeps me an
arm’s distance from the rail.
I am a little more than halfway across
and I want to turn around.
Why not build bridges on land?
Oh—but we do. Over streets
and highways, railroad tracks
and anything else
that may slow us down.
Whoever invented bridges
solved the world's problems.
So why can't we build bridges
over hunger, fear, hate, intolerance,
injustice, inequality, disease, pain,
prejudice, terrorism, and all things evil?
Why can't we go back to 1970
and float on that that round piece of vinyl?
Thank you, Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel
For building a Bridge Over Troubled Waters
You saved my sisters (every night)
Thank You, Naomi and Wynonna Judd
they built a bridge in the country.
“between your heart and mine.”
And yes Wynonna, I do believe it's time.
I am nearly to the end now
where a homeless lady rests, expecting my change.
Nearby, a mother and her daughter
stop to look for a phone or camera.
The young girl wipes her fingertips
on the frills of her dress.
she is eating plain potato chips.
Maybe we do need bridges after all.

S. Liam Spradlin

Steps in the Night

She Walks
won't talk
At my Talk
High heels click
Cracks in the sidewalk missed
She walks
on my name
Written in Chalk
Down a dirty sidewalk

Her shadow falls
on the Graffiti walls
Lights along the bank dance
Where’s my chance
Ain't no belt
on my button fly pants
I scream
At the back of her head
Her ears are dead

Her stare
In the moonlit air
She don't care
What’s fair
tailor made to share
Ain't no shame
When I'm to blame
Last seconds
of my Last Game

Her collar turned up so high
Keeps the world out...
Ain't no shout from the crowd
in a 12-round bout
Till a right hook connects
Above the neck
Lights out

The mat is cold
I'm climbing the ropes
Playing the crowd
while all my hatters
keep wondering how
I look down at my feet
I'm back on concrete

She's disappeared
I hide in fear
I ain't scared of the dark-
But I am the spark
A willow cries
From the pain inside
is two-person wide
I tried

To mask the pain
In my brain
Like a bullet train
with no breaks
Rolling on my veins
Inside my heart
Tunnels Dark
She stops and starts

On Time
Never late
Don't hesitate
Like a bull outta the gate
She crushes the ground
with the moves she makes
My heart ducks
Eight Seconds
Is long enough

She goes
Distance grows
and I don't know
if the change
on the ground
from my pocket holes
Will be enough
To buy my soul

S. Liam Spradlin

Woman at the Well

I don’t want to be the woman at the well,
walking so far to fetch water
for a man who won’t make me his wife.

I don’t want to be that woman
who was taken time and time again
only to be coldly cast aside.

I don’t want to be the woman who sees a man
and does not recognize him
as the Savior, the Messiah, Jesus Christ.

I want to be the woman who takes his hand
and knows in Him
there is everlasting life.

I don’t want to carry this weight on my shoulders
all the pain of those who came
and walked right out my door.

I just want to drink the living water
the kind that fills me up
and keeps me coming back for more.

I don’t want to be the woman at the well
desperately drawing day by day
from an empty place.

I don’t want to throw pennies
in a fountain, well or spring,
hoping my love will finally show his face.

I just want to drink the living water
the kind that never runs dry
the kind that never leaves me thirsting for more,

or leaves me with these tears in my eyes.
I don’t want to be the woman at the well
I want to be the woman worth fighting for.

Kim D. Bailey
March 12, 2013

Remembering What I Never Had

Days used to run
stacked and covered with dust
like old books used
for decoration
instead of being read.

No stories were told,
no plots thickened.
Just shells for covers of
blank pages,
to hide the emptiness
bound within.

I never noticed them
until you came along
with words written on your heart.

That same heart
you placed upon
your torn and jagged sleeve
of a shirt you bought
at the thrift store.

While we walked, winding
zigging and zagging across streets
and bridges, connected
caressing and caressed,
by an unknown wind
blowing against wood
and steel,
wrapping us in its

I remember what I never had, but
I am not sorry.

I’ve found the lost piece of myself
here with you,
the part of me I longed for
and missed
something once lost
though I never knew
existed until
I looked into your eyes.

Kim D. Bailey

April 1, 2017

A Phoenix Rises from the Ash

I am the fire
torching all in my path
unforgiving undiscerning.
                Move or burn—
for my flames are fierce.
licking at old wounds
scorching those who
leave a scar.
Red, molten, lava,
Your guilt or
                no matter—
for at some time
you broke a
and that is all
that means anything

Kim D. Bailey
February 25, 2017

Meant to be Broken   
S. Liam Spradlin

Promises...those we make to ourselves.
Or maybe like the promises we make
To God. The ones we make
When we find ourselves
Overwhelmed by a situation
Of our own creative ignorance.
Promises. Like those drowned out in
Static words between cell phones.
Promises. That bring out the laughter
In senseless childhood friends.
Promises. Like dandelion seeds
Riding saddle to the April wind.
Promises. The ones we remember
Are the ones someone else spoke.
Promises. Cannot exist.
Like a proud drop of rain
Begging to be hidden away
In the desert’s crumbling veil.
Promises. Sound good.
Like our favorite song making a U-turn
Down on Cyclone Corner.
Promises. Shared among lovers
Like a thick mud shake and two straws.
Promises heard.

City Blocks
S. Liam Spradlin

This afternoon I walked downtown.
I followed the same path I first
Memorized by streetlights and
Building tops. Not stoplights
And street names. Today-
I walked looking down, or
Maybe looking in. As I walk
Thoughts pedal across my mind
Like the soft click of a plastic
Straw caught in the silver spokes.
Today I noticed the cracks in the
Sidewalk down on Main.
I imagine my heart looks
Very much the same…
Everything cracks
The faces I meet are only voices
Mingled among the cities
Constant rumble. All I
Can really hear is the cautious rhythm
Of my soles pressing against the
Concrete. Although I am not
Lost, I feel alone. A fast blast
From a car horn is not recognition,
Rather a rude interruption of my thoughts…
I go back to thinking of all the places you could
Never be. A confused waitress questions
My response… “Table for One.”
She leads me upstairs to
A window from which
The sun has already passed.
I sit down alone.
And you are there.


S. Liam Spradlin

 Soundlessly the massive steel beam swung outward
 High above the push of the city street.
 A single cable grasping the arm of a
 lonely crane positioned against the careless sky.
 My existence mingled with the normality of
 Strangers- whose footprints vanished into those  
 That followed. Between my hurried reflections, I found sanity
  In the convenience of a street vendor’s hot pretzels
  While swallowing the burn of impatient exhaust. A street
  corner musician sets an empty tip jar down
  on a torn speaker. I had been saving pennies
  since a child…I would keep them in empty peanut butter jars.
  I still remember mom cutting the bread in triangles.
  An empty cable swung carelessly High above the city street.
  I had been carrying the weight of the world Like a
  knapsack full of copper and steel. I wanted to be free
  from the confusion, But I stood... 
  Waiting on the Green Man.
S. Liam Spradlin writes poetry and nonfiction. He has been published in the 2017 annual edition of The Sequoyah Review, a literary journal published by the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, where he is currently majoring in Sociology. He has also been previously published online and in print with the Scarlet Leaf Review. He lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA with his partner, published author Kim D. Bailey. You may contact S. Liam via Facebook at Facebook/shan.spradlin

Kim D. Bailey, a 2017 Pushcart Prize Nominee, writes Women’s Fiction, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, and a weekly column for Five 2 One Magazine. She is poetry editor for Firefly Literary Magazine. She is editing a third novel and does freelance editorial work. She's published in several online literary journals and print magazines, podcasts, and has taught writing courses online. She currently lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA with her partner and published poet, S. Liam Spradlin. You may connect with her at or Twitter @kimbaileydeal, Instagram @kimdbaileyauthor or her Facebook page


Tonight I thought I'd post the music of a self-taught pianist, Ryo Fukui.  Born in 1947, he is another musician who is eligible for the current contest.

"Autumn Leaves" is from his first album, Scenery:

You may prefer "Early Summer":

I'll finish with his "Bouncing with Bud":