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Don Kingfisher Campbell, is the founder of POETRYpeople youth writing workshops, publisher of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, leader of the Emerging Urban Poets writing and Wednesday Afternoon Critique workshops, and host of Monday Night Poetry in Pasadena, California. He is the recipient of the National Writers Association's Los Angeles Chapter Author Of The Month Certificate, the Artists For A Better World Spirit Of Youth Award, an Honorable Mention in the Pathetic.org 9/11 poetry contest, the Pennsylvania State Poetry Society's Charles Ferguson Prize, and an Arroyo Arts Collective's Poetry In The Windows Prize. His poetry has been recently published in the anthologies Free-Wheeling, Prism Quarterly, Open Windows, Cookies And Poetry, Dirt, Cosmic Brownies, Three Chord Poems, Midnight Mind Number Five, So Luminous The Wildflowers, and One Drop To Be The Color Black; and is also viewable on the internet at the Tattoo Highway, Poetry Midwest, River Walk, New Verse News, Poets Against The War, Hiss Quarterly, Poetic Diversity, Edifice Wrecked, Call To Arts, Lunarosity, Writer's Hood, Poetic Voices, MindFire Renewed, Poetry Super Highway, Wilmington Blues, Bonfire, and Poetz websites. 

His first book of poetry Enter, reviewed as "pithy, trenchant, raw with life", was published by iUniverse Press and is available on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, etc. You can find him interviewed on Litrave.com and Poetix.net.

JELLY

a floating plant
or
headless animal

a living negative
or
free x-ray

a cool night light
or
small spaceship

a mind
with an
idea

a barely
visible
apple

a flexible
picture
frame

a clear
napkin in
wet wind

a TV
sans
screen

an inverted
vase, flowers
upside down

a pastry
made of the
lightest flour

a half
moon
in water

a hooped
skirt
undulating

a ghost baseball
trying to lose
its cords

a flowered hat
with ribbons to
tie around the neck

look at this
crystal ball,
see the past

like a great
comma looking
for a sentence

it doesn't
see beauty,
it feels

an organic
machine like
a heart

a blue
window to
our beginning

an almost
empty
backpack

a balloon
that got
away

 

I DIED AND WENT TO HECK

When I went down the short chute
it wasn't what I expected
I thought there would be fire
It was just perpetual day
with Santa Ana conditions
And the ground I was anticipating,
brimstone, was merely pebbled dirt
When I got to the information desk
I took a number (665) and only
had to wait for half an hour
My advisor turned out to be
a dead girlfriend who dumped
me years previously, so I felt
simply a little sad
She said my job for eternity would be
to write poems and try to publish
them in the locally prestigious periodical,
the Hell Exists Quarterly (HEQ)
I knew then that I could tolerate
perpetuity without a scream or tear

 

TOP OF THE NEWS

Scientists have cracked
the DNA code of rice,
but I'm still figuring how
you found me attractive

Discovery's astronauts
braved the unknown,
I simply wish to add onto
our many years of memories

Gunmen kidnapped a
senior Iraqi official,
you captured me
a long time ago for good

Fire crews worried
about Western Montana,
I don't have to worry about
the sparks we always make

Israeli troops prepare
for Gaza pullout,
you better believe I hope to
never live in a Laura-free zone

Best-selling author
Judith Rossner has died,
yet you may rest assured
you are my immortal muse

Bear opens garage door,
enters Alaska home; reminds me
of the joy I get when I walk
into our apartment every day

 

POETS, WHERE DO THEY HIDE?

In an apartment or house they'll dwell
Depending on their day or night job
Some, I must admit, are in the street
Others hang inside cafes or libraries

If you look in a window you might see
A man or woman stand or sit in a chair
Looking out a window or not, with or
Without self-consciousness or clothing

In front of them will be a sheet of paper
Or possibly a recording device, maybe
Even a computer, which could be a lap
Is there a need for a light bulb? No,

Their thoughts are flowing
Through a pen or fingertips
With tears or smiles adjoining
Onto a flat or curved surface

Why? To be read and read again
Silently or out loud, inventions
Discoveries, illusions, naked feelings
In another semi-secret place

Likely a dank coffeehouse or room
Filled with their own kind kind
They might speak in someone's home
Or find a very public corner

But watch out for car poets
They're the most dangerous by far
Swerving to scrawl a line...unless
You count supplicants to power
 

 

 

 

2005 Don Campbell

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