Pris Campbell began writing poetry in the fall of 1999 and has been published (or has poems pending publication) in such print and e-zime publications as Limestone Circle, Blackmail Press, Verse Libre, Niederngasse, The Dakota House, Muses Kiss, Peshekee River Poets, Verse Libre, Short Stuff, MiPo Weekly and Digital, Lotus Blooms, The Dead Mule, Women of the Web Anthology, Best of MiPo Anthology and the yearly International War Vets Poetry Anthology. She has placed first or second in several regional and intra-board poetry competitions .Previously a Clinical Psychologist and sailor/traveler, illness has forced her to temporarily park her vagabond shoes. She makes her home in the greater West Palm Beach, Florida , USA.
Pris' poetry is featured in
a Passage through August's main
anthology.
Visit Pris Campbell
at her website Poetic
Inspirations
Catboat In Blue Rédon created me, splashed me, gaff rigged in proud pomegranate, across his blue canvas sea. Waters swirl over my stern where my name bobs in gold. An obscure painting, known only by few. But Rédon, my love, my magician with the sensual brushstroke, the lover who dressed and caressed me, you vaporized; were called by sirens to other seas. You did not take me. Patrons occasionally shuffle by, whisper of my rare, windblown beauty, try to decipher the name on my stern. Was there a secret love? they wonder. I sail this sail that will never end, flutter my pennant to their compliments, cavort in the dancing waves. I was his love, his lady, his spark, my rigging yearns to scream, but I keep Rédon's secret, as I slice through the cerulean deep. © 2003 Pris Campbell
Pris Campbell
A Word With Bukowski It's no good. Me doing that mirror, mirror on the wall thing, smearing my wrinkles with Arden while you moan about old chorus girls and the horrors of ingrown toenails in prison. You always could out-talk me, you know. I say that I see Dorothy's red shoes, empty on the yellow brick road, and that mid-earth volcanoes will destroy all our dreams, hoping to impress with profundity. You roll bored eyes. Dust falls from one pant cuff. I wish you could have come when my breasts burned men's hands and my laugh chased away all blackbirds of sorrow. But those days have been emptied, like fine wine, so yes, let us talk about worn-out furnaces, overdue mortgages, liver spots, and watch the buzzards draw straws over who gets the last rib. © 2003 Pris Campbell
