Oil on gessoed paper, 10" X 10" Courtesy of Soprafina Gallery - soprafina com
SIPPIZINE SCOOPS
HOME(LESS) - PROSE BY AMANDA LAWRENCE
RUTH - POETRY BY ANNE-MARIE GRILLO
A FRIENDLY HOUSE - POETRY BY JOAN MCKINLEY
ENCHANTRESS - POETRY BY JOAN MCKINLEY
HOME - ART BY GAVIN SANTOS
SOUTH OF THE BORDER- PROSE BY LENORE BALLIRO
RESPITE - PROSE BY LILO
MOM - ART BY CARA BEAN
CLEAN WINDOWS - POETRY BY CAROL SCHENE
DEER IN THE SNOW - POETRY BY CAROL SCHENE
FARM SKY - ART BY CARLA REYNOLDS
WELCOME TO THE MARION MCDONALDS - PROSE BY JAY PATEAKOS
FAMILY PORTRAIT- POETRY BY LORENE SWEENEY
FAMILY STORY - POETRY BY LORENE SWEENEY
OLD WEST END - ART BY DAWN BLAKE SOUZA
HOUSE AT 290 ASH - POETRY BY DAWN BLAKE SOUZA
IMPROVEMENT - POETRY BY SARAH MULVEY
WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING - PROSE BY MEREDITH RACE
DUSK - POETRY BY LENORE BALLIRO
HOME TO HOME - POETRY BY LENORE BALLIRO
Thanks the Marion and New Bedford Cultural Councils, local agencies, which are funded by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency
Sippizine Scoops
Wow.
What a gambit of poetry, prose and art you ’ re about to enjoy. When it came time to set up this issue, each piece connected in various ways How to organize this constellation of creativity? This poem played with that prose. Place the art here, or there? Eventually, these stars found their order.
As a theme, “Home” is emotional; an ever changing conversation between past, present and future. As an individual and as a society, home spurs many feelings and experiences. These fifteen contributors bring joy, pain, laughter, nostalgia and time to consider, nudging us to think about home in different ways.
Two years ago, when I couldn’t stop thinking about how cool it would be to shine a light on the Massachusetts South Coast literary constellation, I gave myself time to try. See what happens once an idea hits reality. Take it from there.
Originally, the Writer’s Sessions were a way to promote Sippizine. They do that. But more importantly, they take a solitary pleasure and share it with others, creating connections and inspiring new ideas. Thanks to all of the venues who’ve hosted Writer’s Sessions: Marion Art Center, Mattapoisett Library, New Bedford’s GroundWork and the Elizabeth Taber Library.
This community cultural journal began digital only, with an option to download. Quickly, the chorus grew - give us a print version. And so, Sippizine now fits in a multiple of four pages. Thank you for supporting Sippizine by purchasing a copy or sending a tip!
With four issues now published, the idea shaped by reality heads into the future. Join us for a Writer’s Session this winter, share Sippizine with others and get ready for the Volume 5 theme: Sweet and Sour.
Thanks for being part of this literary frolic along the Massachusetts South Coast.
Alanna Nelson Editor & Publisher
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Theme for Volume 5: Sweet & Sour Submissions open on March 8, 2025
Thanks to is a project of Studio il Punto, copyright 2024
Prose by Amanda Lawrence Home(Less)
“Home is where I want to be; pick me up and turn me around,” Talking Heads
Have you ever lived under the gun?
One that could go off any minute. BANG.
That’s how I grew up It’s how I spent my twenties, thirties, and presumably how I’ll spend my forties. It’s not nearly as fun as it sounds. All my life, I’ve wanted stability. I’m starving for it, wandering from place to place, searching beneath pillows and blankets, flipping couch cushions to no avail.
Where is my home?
Can someone draw me a map?
My apartment isn’t home; I don’t own it. Living in my car is an option, but I’d rather not. I feel numb, no longer dumb enough to ignore the hard truth: I’m in exile. I’ve been called to exist here. It’s not where I’m supposed to be. There was a time before we were born when other people’s rebellions ruined everything. I’m far from home because of them.
Like a restless child at a slumber party, I want to leave. I prostrate on the floor and plead, “Please, Daddy, let me come home.” He won’t even dignify the request with a reply. I’m clothed, fed, sheltered, and in my right mind, I should be grateful. I’m terrified. I’ve only ever known homelessness on God’s green earth. So when my aging landlord informed me he might sell the house soon, that fear of homelessness reappeared like a toxic friend. I lack money and time. There’s nothing to prevent it from happening. Only a miracle can make this go another way. The less we say about it, the better. It’s okay. I know nothing’s wrong nothing. I’ve passed this test before. It doesn’t matter that I’m tied to the tracks while the train barrels forward and the dynamite wick shrinks rapidly it’s happening. Don’t panic. Pray.
I pray in bed, gazing at the ceiling, wondering how much longer I’ll have a bed or a ceiling above me. My eyes dart around the apartment. What will become of this stuff? Where will I put my typewriter, writing desk, or books? What about my dog and son? I feel everything being pried out of my hand like a candy bar before dinner.
Like Job, I must let go. But where does one go? A shelter? I often remind myself I’m homeless here by design. I don’t have to like it, only endure it. It’s a test. How much do I love God? He intends to find out. That’s mostly my fault. I’m a battering ram on His door. When He opens, the rings in my Theophany get dreadfully high. God said.“What did you think would happen to someone that relentless with the Litany of Trust and Divine Mercy Chaplet? It sounded like you were trying to find out.” I’m speechless before Him. He smiles. “Were you not begging for attention mere moments ago, princess? You even went to Mom ” I look away. He’s got me there. I couldn’t stop praying, even in the middle of the night. Relentless is the word. Like a tired toddler, I can’t stop charging into God. What did I think would happen? Why shouldn’t He deliver? It’s just a matter of how.
Whenever my landlord texts or stops by, I panic. Is this the day he tells me it’s over? Every morning, I sip coffee with that thought hanging over me like a guillotine.
“What are you going to do?”
Pray. And push everything away except God. Whatever way He changes me is evolutionary grace Like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, I crave it. I’ll be astounded when it happens, even though I pleaded for the metamorphosis. Lord, have mercy! I trust You. There isn’t a man like you. Wow, Papa. You’re a rare breed. There’s no comparing. You’re the type I want to marry. We’ll keep things merry. I’ll put the ring on when You’re ready.
“Think about the shelter,” whispers a voice. I do. We’ll almost certainly be separated. I see it now: my family scattered like ashes i n the wind. But not today, Satan. God loves me until my heart stops. He loves me until I’m dead. He won’t prohibit me. It’s a relationship I can depend on, but I struggle to retain the lesson. I’m Old Testament like that. It’s not my favorite trait; my bond with God is.
I’m dedicated to His team for as long as He allows me to earn the grace of a happy death. And yes, I’m truly as faithful as I strive to be. I believe that’s enough. With a few deep, deep breaths, I surrender and trust God. He’s got a face with a view that’s present everywhere. Even when I’m homeless, I have my relationship with Him. That’s priceless.
It may not seem like it based on my circumstances, but I’m blessed and highly favored. I’m not ashamed. My birth uprooted me from the vine and transplanted me here. I’m just an animal looking for a home. But I guess I’m already there.
If someone asks, this is where I’ll be.
Where I’ll be
Poetry by Anne-Marie Grillo
Ruth
Last week, in a silent scream of her past self, She posted “Do Not Disturb” and slept ’til ten.
Queries flew from common room to kitchen As Ruth had chosen breakfast by herself.
In detailing all her planning in advance I recognized that rebel joy of mutiny that comes from stepping out of line, clearly to create her moment of happenstance.
A bagel pirated from late-day tea Is plated by k-cup and favorite mug. Alarm not set, her room softly lit, She spritzes linens, and shrugs off pity.
Like Biblical Ruth, she retains a grace Evoking grandeur in contracted space.
SIPPIZINE VOL. 4
A FRIENDLY HOUSE
The house across the way is like an old friend. I look over every day morning, noon and night. I see its red siding in my early morning sight. Mid day it winks at me, hello. Every night is different, with six large windows alight on the upper level, while lower ones are dark. I wonder if the owners are away They don't need to always stay. But I like the house alive and bright.
ENCHANTRESS
During a week’s trip sailing on the Enchantress with two English friends We anchored at Tobago Keys in the Caribbean, a cover perfect for snorkeling. Crystal clear water was like glass in a window, with fish and coral to view through it.
After an hour or so it was time to swim back, but the sun was blinding and we were disoriented by all boats looking alike. A rasta man plying his ware in a small boat offered help, gratefully accepted. He led us back to Enchantress where the four of us boarded her, tired and hungry, but happy and safe.
Art by Gavin Santosext
HOME
by Lenore Balliro
SOUTH OF THE BORDER: LETTER TO ROSA Prose
This is where we should live, my girl, on the road between Ocala
and Boston, between Willow and Gloucester, and all the blue highways west we ’ ve never driven, belting refrains from Broadway musicals: Jesus Christ, superstar. Give me head with hair…. They say pig bung is used as a substitute for calamari, but no one can prove it, not the FDA, not slaughterhouses, not restaurants. So says Ira Glass on NPR, one of the things we learn from FM radio before we turn the dial to the satellite station and groove to bluegrass. Games of 20 questions stave off sleep and dementia On the road we ’ re a team, you keep track of the dollar bills for toll booths and decode the mysterious tickets: exits and entries and what we owe. If we had a transponder, life would be easier, but then we’d miss small exchanges with toll both workers, and my need to have you translate. What did he say? I think he said You’re enormous! No, Mom, he said Here you go, miss
You know how to work the car ’ s controls. I tell you: I want my bum to be warm, and you dial something and my bum is warm. Remember Pedro’s South of the Border? My mother hadn’t died yet, but my father had just died, and it was one of those trips to Florida. I was so glad to have you with me. We kept laughing at the signs, one after the other and we snapped blurred pictures and sped up in anticipation, expecting a carnival, a tart and spicy party and all the kitsch souvenirs we could bring back for our neighbors Instead all my inert sadness ignited, scanning the ruined parking lot and eroded statues of “Pedro,” top heavy with faded sombrero, and inside, surly clerks tired of ringing up key chains and shot glasses with the same stupid logo. I fingered the grass skirts and let myself cry for my Dad, where my mother couldn’t see me and tell me to stop We bought you a coconut shell bra and you wore it over your t-shirt all the way home to make me laugh, and truckers looked down, down into the front seat of our baby blue Crown Vic, a car that suited my father and would make me happy to drive for a few more months until someone needed it more than I did. This was before you were old enough to drive, and I had to be the one behind the wheel.
This is where we should live, on the road. I’ve got enough to last us until you are 21. We could drive to Hawaii or Costa Rica, never mind the waterways, we’d figure it out The paper wrappers from take-out could fuel our campfires, the dog would keep us warm in the cold desert. We wouldn’t have to worry about resale. Or ringing up cash registers. In cafés people would tell us stories, and we’d tuck them into the glove compartment until we were too bored with the landscape and then we’d do re-runs This is where we should live, we won’t have to make the bed or do dishes, or mow any lawns. Or pay taxes. We would not be lost, we would wander, the roads like stitches across a quilt of days that never form a straight line.
Prose by Liloxt
RESPITE
I have returned to a home that never was home. Summer person. “Ah back then are ya ” the hearty but indifferent greeting from the locals. They never knew my name. This time I stayed past Labor Day. My new role as a co-caregiver tethering me to a new notion of home, a new series of quiet adventures, at least, once the alcohol wore off. Adventures like asking “is that a symptom of something new?” or “did you really mean to pay the gas company three times?”
2
I meet them all the time, everywhere. My new tribe.
I do ride share driving amongst other things. Sometimes they get in the car, redrimmed eyes telling part of their story A parent newly diagnosed The sudden realization that their lives have just been curtailed. Can’t leave all the care to strangers can I? Her affairs are a mess, it’s taken me weeks to sort it. He’s really paranoid about his money. She won’t eat. He keeps spending money on fishing tackle and online girlfriends.
When winter comes we all sit down with our reds and our hearty foods and overdecorate our houses for the holidays with a gaiety we do not feel for an audience that does not care. There are few children in the neighborhood during the winter, and after the holidays, none at all. The summer people are gone, leaving us to often bleak weather that like our moods has no colour and seemingly no end
We talk at the bar. I’m working on short stories I say. I’m developing a play says someone else. I’m painting a series this year says another. Others, on their accomplishments: I won an Emmy. I ran the operations side of a famous software company.
3
What I really do is argue with my father about lunch. And go to medical appointments. And explain the dinner menus that my sister puts up. The finer points of meatloaf. The playwright is organizing caregiving schedules and cleaning up after her mother. The painter is trying to get help from the state for her father. She’s doing that more than painting.
Our lives constructed elsewhere, meaningless now – titles acquired, awards won. I mean, I was somebody. Now I’m a caregiver.
4
Jealous, all of us, of those that became orphans so much younger. Better than suffering through THIS we say. Then, hey, those Dark and Stormys in a can are pretty good. Yeah, I think We’re all jealous of the orphans Until we become one, finally
5
My father is cleaning his room. I play peek a boo with his brain. My father is cleaning his room and it hurts me to see the blank spaces on his shelves. Large piles, just gone. Academic papers trashed leaving only an outline of dust like the chalk outline of a dead body on a cop show.
Every time a new section of blank appears on the shelf, my father’s summer blue eyes are little more innocent.
Because my father is cleaning more than his room.
6
I worry a lot. I worry of course about my father. But myself too. When it’s over what will I be? Will I have enough energy to find myself again?
Art by Cara Bean
by Carol Schene
CLEAN WINDOWS
I cleaned the windows today washing away wind swept, rain soaked days but not the memories of solitary hours of re-imagining my life.
Glass is so forgiving, rewarding me with an outside world that looks so renewed and ready to move forward through this sparkling transparency.
If only a few strokes could wave away my ennui with the breathless cruelty of these times.
DEER IN THE SNOW
My mind is sinking under snowdrifts that are building at a reckless rate as the wind whines and grinds against the streaked windows.
This edginess has the dogs following me from room to room. The storm frazzles all of our psyches as if it plans to swallow us whole.
The ocean beyond the field is lost in a ghostly blur, but near the stone wall a solid form breaks though the white veil a deer, as alone as I feel, looks about.
The snow is deep and unblemished, no markings to guide her to a safe haven. As she plunges forward, elegant and bold, she takes my frozen spirit with her.
by Carla Reynolds
FARM SKY
Photography
Prose by Jay Pateakos
Welcome to the Marion McDonalds
(this is a work of fiction…mostly, and an idea that came out of a Sippizine writing session!)
The first mistake the developer made was having the McDonald’s logo on the very
first slide on the big screen at the front of the room that everyone had to walk by to get to their seats for this inaugural public hearing at the Marion Music Hall.
This historic Hall, the site of many contentious public hearings over the years including the capacity crowd that booed the CVS developers just over a decade ago, the first and only meeting ever held as the developers took the animosity from that hearing, packed it up in their suitcases and went back to their homes far away from our seaside town. Almost all of the hundred or so people there that CVS night were very pleased with themselves as that spiteful meeting drew to a close. “This is the Gateway to our town” they told the developers about their proposed pharmacy site on the corner of Route 6 and Front Street where the Captain Hadley House sat. “We don’t need a pharmacy here,” said another citizen, forgetting that at one time Marion had three pharmacies in this small-town alone decades ago.
Tonight’s public hearing was a little different and yet…not. Developers were proposing a new satellite McDonald’s location at the site of the former Christie’s turned Cumberland Farms turned abandoned and blighted Route 6 building just kitty corner from the “Gateway to our town”. At this location, McDonald’s planned a new kind of burger plan that would only measure roughly 2,000-square-feet and would have no interior seating, only a drive-thru. This prototype idea catered to the increasingly lazy people that can’t get out of their cars anymore because they’d prefer a drive-thru so they can go through their Facebook or Instagram accounts while their meal is prepared
The 115 people that had jammed into the Music Hall this night knew very little about the proposal, which aggravated the capacity crowd to no end. All they knew was that it was a McDonalds and that it would feature a despised drive-thru. For many Maronites, the word drive-thru brings back very painful memories of another abandoned site a few decades ago, the former L’ Auberge Restaurant, that shuttered in 1989 after five years in business and sat empty, much like this Christie’s site, for more than a decade.
Dunkin Donuts had eyed the site for years and planned a small location there without a drive-thru mind you, but the town, forever afraid of franchises in their small 5,000resident town, fought it forever. The developer pledged that if he had to go through a lengthy litigation process, and if he won, he would build a God-damned drive-thru just in spite. I guess you kind of know the rest of the story. A decade of fighting and a drive-thru that most in Marion now use religiously. How time heals all wounds, eh? But hey, the town got the last laugh. When the new Marion Dunkin Donuts site finally opened, they put those colorful D’s on the door handles and the town made them take them down as they saw that as a form of advertising that was not allowed. Take that you franchise!
But there was something very different about tonight. Maybe it was the big golden arches on the screen that made the crowd seem much louder than normal, even at a contentious hearing like this. Maybe it was because McDonald’s was the town’s first TRUE franchise trying to come into its fold, way bigger than the Dunkin or CVSs of the world. Was it the drive-thru? The French fries? That it was so close to the “Gateway of our town”? The murmuring grew so loud that it took the developers a full five minutes to command the crowd’s attention.
The next slide after the golden arches was a rendering of what the McDonald’s location would look like, even down to a family of four waving out of their car windows, French fries in hand, as they left the new Marion drive-thru. The groan in the crowd made me think they may have hated that slide more than the golden arches one.
“This location has long been a blighted site in town for many years, ” the developer noted. “Cumberland Farms abandoned the site within days of opening their new site across the street, leaving the town with an abandoned building on the busiest intersection in the Tri-Town. We are here to give it life again.”
You can imagine what the crowd thought of that line. There were a few choice words muttered but this being a family magazine, we’ll just leave that to your imagination.
“We are proposing a 2,000-square-foot satellite location at this former Cumberland Farms site featuring a drive-thru window,” the developer continued. “The site is rather small so parking is very limited but this and other locations we are building are no longer catering to sit-in eating.
SIPPIZINE VOL.4
Our focus is with the on-the-go crowd, those busy professionals who are always on the way to somewhere else and need a quick bite.”
The developer stressed that the drive-thru traffic would not enter through the highly-traveled Route 6 but through Wells Road and then exit off of Spring Street.
“We feel this blighted location would benefit from this small development that would create roughly 30 jobs in the community, including six full-time jobs”, he said, promising that if the proposal passes, McDonald’s would gift the town of Marion with a new Pumper Fire truck that they have desperately needed since their 1965 model burst into flames last year as well as a new SUV Hybrid police vehicle.
Although the developers had asked for questions to come after the presentation, Zachary Patenaude, a frequent voice at every Town meeting whether it was needed or not, rose to his feet as if the place was on fire.
“Marion is a small town and if people want this crap food, they can just drive down the street to Wareham or Fairhaven and get it,” Patenaude said. “We don’t need this so close to the Gateway to the town.”
There it is again.
Patenaude sat down as abruptly as he rose and the presentation continued.
The mathematicians in the crowd were still trying to figure out how this small satellite location could employ 30 people if it was just a drive-thru and a scant 2,000-square-feet.
Then the next slide popped up.
“Open 24 hours for your convenience”
To be continued….
Poetry by Lorene Sweeney
Family portrait
Complex, cohesive, cooperating, confining
Allowance for growth tolerated, but contested
Obedience demanded, mistakes reprimanded
Automatic perfection assumed and expected
Rigid insistence on inflexible standards
Expression of original thoughts discouraged
Nonverbal messages conveyed impatience
Accusations strengthened guilt and shame
An emotional desert of stinging sand
Quenched with imagination and escape
Family Story
herded like cattle from car to store my father yelled my mother spanked treats were rare lectures fell like rain boys could do anything girls cleaned up the mess tantrums were common exile followed tears and television filled the house dreams of independence with scarce resources lives were warped futures clouded anticipated costs never imagined
OLD WEST END
Art by Dawn Blake Souza
THE HOUSE AT 290 ASH
A little piece of heaven Right here on Earth Was the house at 290 Ash.
Always full of laughter, Full of people, full of joy, That house at 290 Ash.
Not a mansion, Not a shack, But a home, a real home That house at 290 Ash.
The memories shared there The friendships made there Are a part of the house at 290 Ash.
Junior and his week ends home, Doreen with her brush and comb, Richard and his little pranks, Norman with his file and rank, Danny with his cowboy guns, Cynthia’s visits, always fun, Alden with his troops and all, Bobby’s paintings on the wall, Helen with her Beth, so dear, Dawnie’s schoolbooks always near.
But the best thing I remember About that little home Was the love of my Mama and Papa Who held us all together And showed us how to care for one another.
It was they who brought That little piece of heaven To the house at 290 Ash.
Poetry by Sarah Mulvey
IMPROVEMENT
A decade ago, I had plans of leaving. But things changed, I had to adjustI crash-landed in a little apartment on Seventh Street
$600 a month for rent, the tiniest stove you ’ ve ever seenAnd I made new plans.
Why not join in, and build here where I stand?
Create in the midst of people who love me.
Don’t we deserve to live somewhere beautiful, Full of joy, of life, of each other?
Can’t that be right here, where I stand?
We’ve done it ourselves,
A few dozen times over.
Razed to the ground
By fire, by highways, by money-
But we ’ ve stayed.
The families that built this city
The artists that make it beautiful, The shopkeepers and business men Who have called this place home
Continue to make their plans.
A City that lit the world -
With pride, with industry, with creativity.
With blood and sweat and tears
With blistered hands and bent backs. With brush and pen, ink and paint.
We do not need your plans, We do not need your beautification.
We build, we create - here in the midst of people who love us.
We continue to shine, candles burning late into the night.
WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING
There’s a young girl, determined to take on the world. She holds her key. “Bumpy side up, ” Her mother said She lets herself in
She knows where to hide her vitamins.
She knows there’s a sticker between the door next to the wall.
She knows not to listen when the loud voices echo outside her door. Not friendly, not happy.
She knows it will end soon. Tomorrow, there’s pancakes waiting for her.
There’s a girl, not young enough to be fretted about but young enough to be thought of.
She drops her keys. There’s a knot on one. “Forget me knot” her mother giggles.
She knows which step to skip. She knows there’s a hole in the wall behind that painting.
She knows where to hide the keys when the whiskey is missing. There’s glass breaking up the stairs.
An accident?
Not gentle.
She knows it will end soon. Tomorrow, there’s another apology note waiting for her.
There’s a girl that found a grey hair last week.
She changed the locks a year ago.
There’s a bracelet on her wrist. “A square knot. From my father to my mother.” Her mother told her.
She picked out the pumpkins herself.
Her youngest knows a chasing game.
Her oldest knows where she hides the chocolate. The voices inside are friendly, and happy, and gentle. They live here now.
The house is missing pancakes and notes.
The girl misses her mother
SIPPIZINE, VOL.4
Poetry by Lenore Balliro
DUSK
The dog lies on the cool grass. He smells fish grilling. He senses contentment. It’s been a long week. It’s been a long life.
He’s waiting for the salmon skin. We’re waiting to eat our fill. Drink our fill. Watch the finches jump from sunflower to sunflower,
Wait for the crickets to sing full throttle like the ones from childhood symphonies. But don't let me get too grand with metaphor.
I want to tell it true. No cheap tricks.
HOME TO HOME
From across a continent, an ocean, and an island where I drift in sea dreams, I hear the cries and barks of coyotes— playing or feasting in Martha’s backyard, Gloucester, Massachusetts. Playing or feasting, we don't know which.
They are so loud tonight, she says across time five hours later holding her phone up to an open door so I can listen. In the background, faint strains of Don Giovanni. My friend savors the wild and cultured both.
I listen long from the lanai where I watch the plump arrogant moon do what she does, in silence. Then I hold my phone up, too, so Martha can hear the cool, dreamy song of the Shama thrush in my neighbor’s coconut palm, rivaling any aria.
Author/Artist Biographies
Contributors
Name Meredith Eilertsen is an author & artist living in Westport, MA @veganf
Lenore Balliro is a recent transplant to the South Coast from Gloucester, MA. She has been published in a number of literary journals and anthologies including The Louisville Review, The Minnesota Review, The Hoboken Review, Italian Americana She received a RI State Council on the Arts award for literature and the Gloucester Writers' Center award for flash fiction.
Born in Wareham. Raised in Marion. Resides in Mattapoisett.
Cara Bean is a cartoonist and art educator. Author of “Draw 500 Funny Faces and Features,” her latest book is Here I am, I am me Find out more at www carabeancomics com
L.L.G.
L.L.G. is a writer and, hopefully, a future author.
Anne-Marie Grillo resides in Fall River and has been a member of The Poets' Table for the past seven years.
Anne-Marie Grillo
Amanda Lawrence is a worm in this compost heap called life.
John Heavey
Anne-Marie Grillo resides in Fall River and has been a member of The Poets' Table for the past six years.
John Heavey has directed plays and musicals at the high school
Lilo lives and works in Marion after having returned from overseas. dear-sophia.com
Joan McKinley grew up on the south shore of Long Island. She met her husband at the University of Rochester, raised four boys in western Mass and moved to Dartmouth to be near the ocean
Nancy Mitton is an artist whose latest solo show is on view at Soprafina Gallery in Boston. The upcoming New Bedford Whaling Museum’s exhibit “Lighting the Way: Lives, Labors and Loves of South Coast Women” also includes her work.
Sarah Mulvey
Jay Pateakos
is an editor, poet & nerd A founding member of Anomaly Poetry & host of multiple open mic events, she is currently the Poet Laureate of the City of New Bedford, where she was born and raised. Published in Sippizine, Vol. 1, Tidings and Rituals, she most recently made it into the final pool of selections for Taco Bell Quarterly, but ultimately did not make the cut. She is in the process of killing her darlings in the hopes of publishing her first collection in 2025
is a former full-time journalist who now dabbles in economic and community development for the city of Taunton. He lives in Marion with his wife and children where they constantly discuss Tri-Town development of any kind.
Heather Heath Reed
Meredith Race
Carla Reynolds
Heather Heath Reed lives in Westport, MA, where she is retired and
Born in Wareham Raised in Marion Resides in Mattapoisett
is a lifelong south coast resident who portrays the everyday in an extraordinary way. She hopes her photography gives “glasses” to others so they, too, feel pride and awe in our landscape Find her on Instagram @See what carla sees
Gavin Santos is an artist daydreaming about what to do next
Carol Schene
Dawn Blake Souza
is a retired librarian and lecturer on young adult and children’s literature Recently published in Voices of the Earth: The Future of our Planet III, her poem, Great Blue Heron, was recorded for Poetry Sunday on WCAI.
born and raised in New Bedford, Dawn raised a family and was a stay-at-home mom. She started college when her youngest entered kindergarten, graduating from UMass Amherst, then getting her Master’s from Harvard After a career in teaching and public school administration that led her across the country, Dawn authored five non-fiction books, including a children’s book that was illustrated by her late husband. These days, she also explores primitive/folk art as another creative outlet
Lorene Sweeney loves the natural environment and those who live in it. She is a painter and poet.
