THE POET – Featured Poetry – July 2022
Featured Poetry – JULY, 2022
HOMELAND
By Marilyn Longstaff (ENGLAND)
My little father was a ‘man of Sussex’, his town
East Grinstead and his ancestry quite static,
a line of labourers and domestic servants
all from the tiny triangle of Groombridge,
Ashurstwood and Forest Row. His mum,
my granny, once the daughter of a tanner,
became a champion of the poor, and now
she features in the town museum, clad
in her ‘Army’ uniform. Councillor, poet,
mother of eight children, she raised
her growing family in the ranks, and named
my father, William Bramwell, for The Founder.
When Dad was called to service in God’s Army,
to storm the forts of darkness down in Plymouth,
up to Darlington and all points in-between,
he left his home and made us rootless, scattered.
And we who sojourn in these northern uplands –
adopt its accent, marry out and change our names –
are branches of that family tree, the Finches,
Sargeants, Crowhursts and the Wellers.
We couldn’t be more Sussex if we tried.
First published in Articles of War (Smokestack Books 2015)
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Tờ 2 đô may mắn không? 2$ 1776, 1976 giá bao nhiêu?
Marilyn Longstaff’s work has appeared in a number of magazines, anthologies and on the web, she has written five books of poetry, and is a member of the writing, performing and publishing collective Vane Women.
W: www.vanewomen.co.uk
FB: @marilyn.longstaff.9
MY DAD SHOWS UP IN RUINS IN CARSULAE
Tonya Lailey (CANADA)
Through oaks there is stone
and thigh-high meadow
and summer beginning to smell
like itself and there is my dad off
on a tangent off where the path
over rock is dirt and roots trip
the pound in it and maple walnut ash
and sassafras take turns and after
turning and turning around down here
anyone would come to the edge
and anyone would feel the takedown
in the water from the table rocks
where he must have stood
where my sister and I ran
to find him my toast-dry throat
my tongue rank in hours ago eaten
egg bacon coffee my dad missing
for those hours along the bank
the river we did not know my sister
and I crashing into the shock wave
of it I hauled the word dad again
and again from my mouth
that seemed to end in itself
my voice unfit for the job
my sister calling over tourists
who acted aimless against my legs
firing through the woods
going past each tree
my voice couldn’t climb
the whirlpool’s thunder spiral
where my dad must not have gone
could not have taken my childhood
could not have fallen
the heave-scrape of the lid
the gape in the sarcophagus
the dark opening
over rock bottom
my dad’s charcoal-stained lips
in the hospital
his stone-washed eyes
his blotched spotted skin
a skin I now grow into
how rivers bed
how a river beds
Via Flaminia in May
a river.
END
Tonya Lailey completed her MFA in creative writing at the University of British Columbia, and writes fiction, essays and poetry.
Facebook: @laileyt
THE HEART OF GUILTY MAN
By Mathews Mhango (MALAWI)
Hands crossed on my weakened and guilty heart
As l figure out the loss of love
The guilt of my actions
Keep playing in the back of my mind
Like a horror movie
They give me nightmares
They reality I have to face with no funfair
The love I cherished and loved most
Keeps drifting away from me
As dews on a patch of grass melting
To the scorching sun, burning my heart
The skeletons in the closet, are really mine
And keep scaring me, haunting me
A reminder of the pain
I have caused in this love journey
As Ii am fighting the demons that keep staring
At me when I look at the mirror
A true reminder of my actions
I am fighting for my redemption
To gain the love that I have lost
The pain to lose this love
Is too much to bear
Looking from a distance as it drifts away
Like a sun setting in a distance horizon
With the spark of love that still remains
In my weaken and guilty heart for this love
Am fighting for the redemption of this love
That I can heal and gain this lost love with you
So the pain of your sorrowful heart to all be memories.
END
➡️ Câu nói hay về vé số hay và độc đáo nhất tại đây. Chắc hẳn bạn đã nghe qua nó từ những người bán dạo trên đường phố.
Mathews Mhango is an Internal Auditor by profession working in the public sector. He likes to write poetry on different issues that affect society.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE NIGHT
By Eduard Schmidt-Zorner (REPUBLIC OF IRELAND)
One day you wake up
and realise you are alive.
It is such a mind-blowing feeling,
that at first you cannot discern it.
Family and relatives enraptured
and delighted surround the child’s bed.
First, I saw only black and white
like the fields of the chessboard.
The ‘King’ and the ‘Queen’
who looked at me,
Then the ‘Rooks’ and ‘Pawns’,
uncles and aunts,
opened the view to colour
when snow and ice disappear
in the coldest month of the year,
me, born into ruins and poverty
as a quasi-new beginning.
A fibrillation of hope.
Shy, peculiar, and quiet
the little child.
There are already images
in the mind
that are a foundation,
to build a life on,
a predestination.
END
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku, and short stories. He writes in four languages, and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose, and experimental poetry.
FAMILY OF TREES
By S. D. Kilmer
Have you never seen
A solitary tree?
Even the Joshua Tree
Is never alone in the Mohave Desert.
There are families of trees.
They nurture one another.
They shade the youngest.
They preserve the eldest.
Self-perseverance together.
This is a family whose roots
Are known, grow deep in the earth.
They know their place.
They know their race.
Roots that are interwoven
One tree with the other.
Identity is assured.
A familial community
With all the right virtues.
Where might there be
A similar family among humanity
With all the right virtues?
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Những câu nói hay của thầy Thích Pháp Hòa
S. D. Kilmer is a retired Existential/Pastoral Therapist, Pastoral Care Specialist, and Family Conflict Mediator, and has been writing poetry since 1968.
W: www.SDKilmer.com
WAIT A MINUTE
By Lali Tsipi Michaeli (ISRAEL)
Translated from Hebrew by Oded Peled.
I want to release you. I’m not holding you here by force
but
Until I get to my place I want to tell you about a place without a place
I want to tell you about the dove I rescued today in the stairwell.
I do not know from which hole she entered to land exactly
On my inherited floor
but
I created a momentary conversation with her between good friends. Maybe more than that
She listened to my whispers. You were wounded by your death. She stopped flying from height to height. Did not move.
I built trust with you.
You do not understand what nobility was
In this painful state
but
Before the connection was made she really went berserk
She slammed her head into a grid that caught her neck as she came in and out, she went in and out
Couldn’t get out of the trap
I wanted to hold her softly
Lower her and release
but
Suddenly I saw a hole
Of poured water
A large hole blocked in two bricks
I took out the bricks and using my body movements
I made her fly there
The stream of air that drew her
She went in and got stuck in the middle. A real purgatory
And out of fear that she would regret it
And come back
I laid down a first brick
From the repulsion she flew
I immediately laid down the second brick
And I wanted to cry with great happiness that I succeeded in this delusional situation and with great sorrow
For the eternal moment between me and her
I was released.
that’s it. I bought candles in Jaffa.
I can grieve now.
END
Lali Tsipi Michaeli has published six poetry books, has attended a number of international poetry festivals, and was part of a residency program for talented writers in New York.
FB: @1000007433293l
WHAT ARE THE CULTURAL AND LITERARY IMPLICATIONS OF
COEXISTENCE WITH FOREIGNERS, RELATIVES AND OTHERS?
By Douglas Colston (AUSTRALIA)
To give,
in addition to minute talent,
coexists with the optimal potential of each emerging moment –
education harmonising the humanities is significant …
‘to be’ is something!
Participation or interference
(including agreement, supporting, befriending,
fighting, coping, comparing, electing or choosing),
alienation, distance and exclusion
is scattered everywhere.
Physical, psychological and moral qualities or conditions
together with cherishing, harbouring or retaining
clarity, truth and certainty
repeatedly changes and transforms
(in short, it is ‘enlightenment’ or ‘civility’).
Gentle, kind, peaceful and temperate patterns
(including writing, social phenomenon and etiquette),
learning, knowledge, meaning, sense,
charity, freedom, justice and morality
are perfect
and miscellaneous.
Tiny and insignificant groups of poems
(or people [including troops])
are artificial –
they are made by humans, false, misleading and unnatural.
Anticipating or expecting repetition
to add up to commodities or currency
conceals the ‘target’
(the optimal potential
of each emerging moment).
Existing with charity, love and kindness scattered everywhere
alienates conflict.
Fighting foreigners, relatives and others rapidly causes –
respectfully –
castration (metaphorically).
‘Being’ is the goal.
Patterns become echoes.
Patterns realising, learning, comprehending, understanding and studying
sense, meaning, and right conduct
are perfect …
of course!
END
Douglas Colston holds a BA, a BSc and a post-graduate Psychology qualification. His poetry, fiction and non-fiction has been published online and in print, in addition to appearing in a number of anthologies.
FB: @douglas.colston
WELCOME TO THE WORLD. SORRY ABOUT THE MESS
By Lawrence Hopperton (CANADA)
smile and look to me
shudder and ecstasy
sing your worried
grey-green moods
back-lit, wind gold
cradled and skies
roil, rain drives
synchronous tree-bent
cadences and nuzzles
this private crook
END
Lawrence Hopperton is the retired Founding Director of Distributed Learning at Tyndale University in Toronto. He has had a number of books published, and his work has appeared in literary journals worldwide.
W: www.enroutebooksandmedia.com/tableforthree/
BROKEN
By Kathy Sherban (CANADA)
Fam Jam
intricate beast
fire breathing
tricky peace
One, two
gut punch luv
tongues workin
push ‘n shove
Twisted sista’z
rank ‘n file
prodigal son’z
apple child
Madd clan
pedigree plus
blood transfusion
parental bust
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Phong cách sáng tác của Xuân Diệu “Ông hoàng thơ tình”
Kathy Sherban is a poet and author, and her work has been published in several global anthologies and international literary magazines.
W: www.kathysherban.ca
FB: @Kat’s Poetry Korner
FB: @kats_kradle
Instagram: @kat_s_kradle
Twitter: @kathysherban
THE HUMAN PROMISE
By David Sparenberg (USA)
When the Human Promise shut her eyes
she saw what was unseen – heart
of the human heart – soul
of the human soul. Light
like the softness of flowers shone
around everyone whose task in
life was truth and within
every deed done for sake of the
goodness of life. Keeping the Possible open.
When she opened her mouth
a river flowed out
joining the ocean of light. In
the melodious waters of
life a river of fire
turned pain into smoke. Anguish
of cruelty was washed to ashes.
When the Human Promise opened her eyes
she saw the person beside her
simple and smiling and
quietly responding in talk of peace – a
sounding of intimate dialogue, spontaneously
ignited between them and us
with the freedom of laughter.
Eyes of concord shone
with a poem of letting go
in poetry of belonging, letting
be. Poems repeated, chanted
to keep the Possible open.
When the Human Promise opened
her heart
thorns that had been the
source of suffering
became roses. Every rose
flowered into a tree of life. Every
tree took root
in a cornucopia of compassion. Compassion’s
fruit is justice. The fruit-seeds fall
onto the grounds of salvific orchards.
Rivers meander gently, slowly, natively
unobstructed through valleys of
black soil. Sun has become the tenderest lover.
Those who but sought
power amid trash amid trinkets knotted
in the clasp of death were
surrendered to death. Those who built
tabernacles in the wilderness of
love gathered at the prayers of life.
Allegiance holds fast
to bring love home at last -at last!
to the scorned and the scorched and the homeless Earth
END
David Sparenberg is an author and internationally publishing essayist and eco-poet, living in the Pacific Northwest.
A HORRIBLE HIDE AND SEEK
By Vanessa Caraveo (USA / MEXICO)
A child sobs into her cell phone,
sending one last text home.
In the background, gunshots,
as a disgruntled student roams.
Whether you blame it on stress,
lack of guidance, or bullying,
the end result is all that matters.
And this end will be worrying.
How many dead and gone today?
Less or more than tomorrow?
Families wait outside in horror
for news of fresh scars and sorrows.
She never gets to finish the message
and a few words are left unsaid.
It’s hard to comfort your mother
when you’re already dead.
END
Vanessa Caraveo is an author, published poet, and artist who has a passion for promoting inclusion for all and helping others discover the power within them to overcome adversity.
BIOLOGICAL
By Kirsty Niven (SCOTLAND)
My little nieces come round;
dolls come to life,
and the clock ticks and ticks.
They look up at me with anime eyes,
it gets louder and louder.
A bomb counting down.
END
Kirsty Niven’s writing has been published in several anthologies, journals and magazines, and two of her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Instagram: @kanivenpoetry
IMPRESSIONS IN SAWDUST
By Betty Naegele Gundred (USA)
He takes a pencil from behind his ear
and draws a quick line
on a two-by-four of Douglas fir.
Sawdust flurries carpet the floor
as his saw ruzzes back and forth.
With a hand plane he peels off wood
like carrot curls. They pinwheel down
to greet me.
Our attic is under construction.
“Come over here,” he says,
and points to a level on the door frame.
He shows me how the bubble sits
like a “monkey in the middle.”
I hand him nails, one at a time,
listening to his hammer jam
in staccato rhythm.
Awestruck, I look up at this man,
my father.
More sawdust rains down
as he brushes off his shirt and trousers.
“Enough for today,” he says,
and heads downstairs
with the thump, thump
of heavy footsteps.
On the floorboards, I notice
a trail of footprints,
faint outlines of work boots
dotted with tread,
an impression of him only . . .
my heart full remembering
he was so much more than that.
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Tuyển tập thơ Xuân Diệu về tình yêu đôi lứa, quê hương
Betty Naegele Gundred has enjoyed writing since high-school when she was editor of her school’s literary magazine. She received her B.S. from Cornell University and her M.S. from Michigan State, and taught middle-school science for 20 years.
FB: @bettynaegelegundred
POUR FÉLICITER
By Pavol Janik Ph.D. (SLOVAKIA)
Translated into English by Zuzana Sasovova.
May everyone be happy,
who owns love,
who is not home alone
but surrounded by their family.
Enjoy together
all festivities.
Let the New Year’s spirit prevail.
END
Pavol Janik Ph.D., is a poet, dramatist, prose writer, translator, publicist and copywriter. He has worked at the Ministry of Culture (1983-1987), and in media and advertising. His works have been published worldwide.
W: www.pavoljanik.sk
THE JANGLED WORLD
By Mark Evan Chimsky (USA)
You make your uncertain way down
the long hall of days
as if in a house that belongs to someone else.
But when you sit at the piano, your fingers prod
the keys and out of the clatter
a ribbon of melody floats up
like poetry rising from a chaos of words.
Your eyes once held me in dim recognition
and I was grateful that my name lingered still
in so far a place within—a shining prize
in the dark reach of a cave.
I laid out the blue pills and the red capsules
as if they were pieces from one of our old board games.
“Give me the nicest ones,” you would say,
smiling so I would not see
how small choices have their tyrannies.
I think of how you would be
in a different century, a jangled world
when there was nothing
to subdue the nightly terrors
or stop the whispers in the mind;
a time when sand ticked each second
and leeches pricked the skin.
Now, without the plain count of the daily regimen –
blue pills, red capsules – you
can’t find my name at all
and you shudder, cursing the stranger
who holds your hand and calls himself your son.
END
Mark Evan Chimsky‘s poetry and essays have appeared in publications worldwide. Mark is also a recipient of the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Award as New/Emerging Poet.
FB: @MarkEvanChimsky
SECRETS OF LAUNDRY DAY
By Rohan Facey (JAMAICA)
On Laundry day
She pulled secrets from his pockets:
a forgotten note, a crumpled photo of a woman
as breath-taking as the latest model of a luxury car,
loose threads; along with candy wrappers.
She saw also – lip prints on a snowy cotton shirt
she had pressed two mornings ago
Dirty Linen
tumbled before her –
defying the power of detergents.
➡️ Xem thêm: Các đồng chí ngẩng cao đầu nhằm thẳng quân thù mà bắn đây là câu nói nổi tiếng của ai
END
Rohan Facey is a high-school teacher and a multiple-award winning contemporary poet, songwriter and playwright. He has contributed to both local newspapers and international anthologies.
OUR SPRING ROMANCE
By Rubilyn Bollion Cadao (HONG KONG/PHILIPPINES)
Flowers bud in thy delight
in crimson, radiant and bright.
As flowers bloom with thy sweet smile,
my heart flutters not just for a while.
As love blossoms like petals budding,
my heart gleams with the grace of Spring.
Petals unfold as you hold me close,
Your tender kiss, gives my heart a dose.
With the silver rays of the sunshine, we slide.
As the flowers flicker as we dance and glide.
Buds blossom with thy delight,
and blooms with thy love’s pure light.
Captivating my heart to fall,
with your endearing heartbeat’s call.
As the spring grace the season dearly,
our hearts entangled true and clearly.
Our love prospered as we take a reason,
flourished through the freshness of the season
Like the bees swamped buzzing over the flowers,
you conquered my heart, guarding it forever.
END
Rubilyn Bollion Cadao is Filipino, and works as a domestic worker in Hong Kong. She started writing poems when she was in high-school; writing about love, nature and life’s struggles.
FB: @dux illinois
UNTITLED
By Abd al-Karim (NETHERLANDS)
Translated by Catherine Cobham
I want to say here what could not be said there
In that room where there were three of us
Refugee, interrogator, translator
This is the disappointment that precedes regret
A lesson in extreme eloquence
That says clearly
Your arrival at your destination
Doesn’t have to mean you’ve survived
It’s disappointment whose exact number I don’t know
But it’s less than a shock
After all we’re living in Dante’s Inferno
In the time of black comedy
When nothing is as it should be
I am a boat from the third world
A boat that shows signs of sinking
A thread shaking in the womb of a needle
A poet who has built his ruined world in instalments
In streets where dogs die of heart attacks
In poems always selected for rejection
In demonstrations that I escaped from alive by sheer chance
On posters that read “Tomorrow will be ours”
In the drawings of Van Gogh that icon
Who experienced another kind of pain when he cut off his ear
As a reaction to bouts of hysteria
In bars where we forget everything
I’m a poet
Who writes to mountains that show signs of withering
Who plays tunes that rustle in the ear of dying flowers
Plays madly
On a matchbox
The matchbox where thirty or more streets have settled
A poet
Who believes to some extent in the sanctity of colours that vanish one after the other
In the resurrection of rivers subjected to arbitrary arrest
And believes more in Cavafy’s terrifying words
Since your life is ruined there it’s ruined everywhere
Nothing can resist this absolute refusal
I realise that or almost
But something had to be said
It was possible the pain would be excised here
It was possible that tomorrow
Would be an extraordinary day
And it was possible
That I would gain a little peace of mind so I could shout
Through loudspeakers I’ve done it
But
This place is not mine
There’s another country involved
And Dublin is the holy god of fingerprints
As you say
These evocative words do not change fates
But they do what they can and more
I accept the refusal but I cannot accept the reason …
END
Abd al-Karim is currently seeking asylum in the Netherlands.
BLACK HOLE
By Janelle Finamore (USA)
Rushing towards extinction on a Ferris wheel of doubt
The heavy night air like an elephant thickens my heart with lust
You look in the mirror at the unmasked moon and beg for its glow
The wind clothed in desperation and desire striving to become a quiet monk
You strangle the wind while the circles whir, us a tangled mess
Licking my wounds as the darkness swallows us into it’s mouth.
We fear a black hole ending
As we move recklessly, sliding down the throat of the night sky.
END
Janelle Finamore is a musician, poet, teacher, and fairy-tale writer. Her writing is inspired by the beat poets, and has published internationally.
LONELINESS
By Francisco Azuela (MEXICO).
To the Tarahumara, indigenous Rarámuris from northern Mexico.
Translation from Spanish by the poet Reynaldo Marcos Padua.
Now that the song of the birds is gone
And at night, the storm
Has a pitiful and lonely barking of dogs,
And love has withered.
Loneliness I know you, at last.
Goddess of silence and of a hollow branch,
Ere once the birds wove their nests.
Great deaths appear to my mind,
Immense characters
And their glorious times.
Kings, poets and warriors,
The freedom of the nations has been very high,
Blood has flowed
As much as the rivers that flow into the deep sea.
A strange insect has prowled your soul
And you have gone with him
In an act of devotion so similar to an absence.
You’ve already forgiven great injustices.
The mutilated men claim
Their right to be heard,
And only you can feel a bitter wind
Breaking your heart in the deserted mountains.
Be brave, comrade of the dawn.
It ´s not far the awakening;
You can interpret all the illusions of these people,
This village immersed in the poverty of life;
Make sing again the white blackbird of old solitudes,
Make it be heard the song of the goldfinches
And of the troubadours,
May the world turn it´s face
To be grafted onto the afternoon spike
Where a sun dreaming of hope is setting.
Make that dawn chant and so with it your soul.
END
Multi-published, multi award-winning Francisco Azuela is a writer and acclaimed poet. He served as a diplomat in the Mexican Embassy in Costa Rica,and later in Honduras.
FB: @francisco.azuela.1
OUR SPRING ROMANCE
By Rubilyn Bollion Cadao (HONG KONG / PHILIPPINES)
Flowers bud in thy delight
in crimson, radiant and bright.
As flowers bloom with thy sweet smile,
my heart flutters not just for a while.
As love blossoms like petals budding,
my heart gleams with the grace of Spring.
Petals unfold as you hold me close,
Your tender kiss, gives my heart a dose.
With the silver rays of the sunshine, we slide,
As the flowers flicker as we dance and glide.
Buds blossom with thy delight,
and blooms with thy love’s pure light.
Captivating my heart to fall,
with your endearing heartbeat’s call.
As the spring grace the season dearly,
our hearts entangled true and clearly.
Our love prospered as we take a reason,
flourished through the freshness of the season.
Like the bees swamped buzzing over the flowers,
you conquered my heart, guarding it forever.
END
Rubilyn Bollion Cadao is Filipino, and works as a domestic worker in Hong Kong. She started writing poems when she was in high-school; writing about love, nature and life’s struggles.
FB: @dux illinois
AT FORTY
By Heidi Seaborn (USA)
I found failure or it found me
like moths to cashmere.
There’s running and then
there’s running away.
I perfected both.
You could tell by the way I laced
up my sneakers, set my iPod to Seal.
It was a time when I flew everywhere
but felt wingless. I look back and see
the sun had already burnt a hole
in my horizon at forty. Scorched
the garden but left the zinnias
to the buzz of teens. How alive
the hive of us. The five of us.
Or so we seemed to passersby.
But I’d already lingered too long—
past the happy hour’s fading smile,
past the bartender’s knuckles
rapping Last Call, gotten sloppy
on the hard liquor of our marriage.
I had only wanted to keep drinking
the champagne of my children,
bubbles rising.
END
After a raising three children and a long business career, Heidi Seaborn started writing poetry in 2016. Today, she holds an MFA in Poetry and is an award-winning author of a number of titles.
FB: @heidiseaborn
THE MAN
By Sanda Ristić Stojanović (SERBIA)
Translation Sonja Asanović Todorović
The man,
protrudes into the idea of heaven as a register of pain,
he is palpated by the kinship of pain and chaos,
spawn by tectonic disturbances of words at
the plateaus of battles, sense, survival.
The man,
squeezed between two ideas of life and death,
the girdle of darkness tightens him, anticipating the protruding position of the word freedom.
Assaults of the afternoons, centuries, falls, seas
summarize him into themselves.
Uprisings of words, centuries, furrows of our speech
flow down the face of the revolution.
The man,
bold as blood and all what blood utters,
face to face with the metaphysics of tearing,
vower of the last surrealism of life,
filled from top to bottom
with honed symbols of earth and sky.
The man,
The node of the tide of the unspoken,
the flywheel of the diamonds of his own ruin,
removes the crown from the head of registrars of everything and
treads like fixing the gaze of angels and demons.
The man,
arose from the invention of time
organizes the metaphysics of rebellion in the dense content of angels and demons
END
Sanda Ristić-Stojanović graduated in philosophy, and is the author of 15 poetry books. Her poems and short stories have published in numerous collections of contemporary literature, and in several anthologies of poetry of the twenty-first century.
FEBRUARY ICE
Dr. Thomas Reed Willemain (USA)
After they buried her first-born
in the frozen earth
her second-born saw her become
a small birch that had borne
too much ice
bent way over
staring into the ground
as if she’d forgotten
where they’d lain the body.
Her husband remained rigid,
a maple with strong branches snapped,
ragged stumps in their place,
a broken symmetry.
The surviving son,
pulled from the passenger seat,
spent his life in futile repair
trying to straighten and mend,
ignoring their resentment
that he was the twig
neither bent nor broken.
END
Dr. Thomas Reed Willemain is former academic, software entrepreneur and intelligence officer. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and publications.
W: www.TomWillemain.com