Cobbs Pond HeronRising silent from the woody fringes the great heron sails above the glacier-carved lake on slate blue wings He circles sun rippled waters Slow and stately long black legs stretch out behind him like the thin swift strokes of a calligrapher’s brush Implacable as Orion the bird surveys the waters his black plumed crest stirs in thermal air Last night’s bull frog chorus crouches below mute sinking into water lily shadows iridescent green blurred by clouds of silt The silent hunter glides into cool shallows beneath an overhanging willow The brilliant August afternoon stills Patient, golden eyed on one stalk leg he waits for the blink of an eye then strikes with pterodactyl beak the basso voiced frog Gray’s Ferry AveRust-haired girl clutches steaming Hess Express coffee in green striped mittens handknit no fingers Walks the double yellow line at Gray’s Ferry Ave. Commuters stream by The red light camera flashes Still shots of the rush etch her against the billowing gray November sky for thunderstorm seconds a PBS documentary in the making Her English bulldogs recline on blankets tethered to the traffic light chewing on bones bought at Pet Smart with yesterday’s gleanings She pours kibble into their bowl Strokes the brown one’s head then steps back into traffic She balances inches from a metallic blue Prius and a battered red pickup Thin-boned in shredded jeans clasping her damp corrugated cardboard sign to her breast she looks dead ahead Today the guy from Jersey in the pickup slows sticks an arm out Two crumpled dollars disappear into her unlaced work boot Her hazel eyes glimmer for a nanosecond then head down, straight ahead she paces on The pickup surges forward into a burst of hot, blinding red The robot camera nails him He curses At the Hess Express across the Ave the glass coffee pot scortches She starts her loop again Sea Games |
Jacob M. Appel is the author of four literary novels, nine short story collections, an essay collection, a cozy mystery, a thriller and a volume of poems. He is Director of Ethics Education in Psychiatry. More at: www.jacobmappel.com |
THAT LAST GOOD SUMMER
That last good summer
How busy we all seemed
Mama directing Our Town
At the summer stock
And Father atop the ladder
With a brandy snifter
Declaiming bits of Auden
Or Father on the deck
(Slippers, cable-knit sweater)
Narrating Pickett’s Charge
To the geese and squirrels
In the raucous gloaming
While Uncle Charles
Routed himself at checkers
That was your summer
Home from Vassar,
Your underlining summer,
Those battered classics
Bleeding with ink. How
Your eyes raged when
Little Emma sailed
To the Lighthouse in
Her bath until it bloated.
You conjured plans
While the twins nursed
Their crippled grackle
And Cousin Philip
Netted that garter snake
He left in the postbox
And what did I do?
Yes, what did I do?
A whole long summer
When we never managed
To repaint the wainscoting
We did not drive the coast
Nor wind the longcase clock.
That promised photo
Languished unsnapped:
A whole long summer
And we failed to stop
Time even once.
How busy we all seemed
Mama directing Our Town
At the summer stock
And Father atop the ladder
With a brandy snifter
Declaiming bits of Auden
Or Father on the deck
(Slippers, cable-knit sweater)
Narrating Pickett’s Charge
To the geese and squirrels
In the raucous gloaming
While Uncle Charles
Routed himself at checkers
That was your summer
Home from Vassar,
Your underlining summer,
Those battered classics
Bleeding with ink. How
Your eyes raged when
Little Emma sailed
To the Lighthouse in
Her bath until it bloated.
You conjured plans
While the twins nursed
Their crippled grackle
And Cousin Philip
Netted that garter snake
He left in the postbox
And what did I do?
Yes, what did I do?
A whole long summer
When we never managed
To repaint the wainscoting
We did not drive the coast
Nor wind the longcase clock.
That promised photo
Languished unsnapped:
A whole long summer
And we failed to stop
Time even once.
SELLING A COFFIN TO BETTY GRABLE
In my concern you only meet folks twice
We hope they’re pleased—but don’t accept returns
Our caskets are bespoke, you understand
Or for a price we sell designer urns
So when Miss Grable rang the counter bell
I introduced her to my teenage sons
And later told them how her fabled gams
Had kept my buddies firing their guns
Of course she’d aged somewhat over the years
A muslin wrap skirt veiled her vaunted shape
Yet I still charged her at a discount rate
For glossed mahogany with velvet drape
When we next met I peeked beneath the hem
Of her gown without permission
A lifetime’s chance for me—and what harm done
To Miss G in her condition?
We hope they’re pleased—but don’t accept returns
Our caskets are bespoke, you understand
Or for a price we sell designer urns
So when Miss Grable rang the counter bell
I introduced her to my teenage sons
And later told them how her fabled gams
Had kept my buddies firing their guns
Of course she’d aged somewhat over the years
A muslin wrap skirt veiled her vaunted shape
Yet I still charged her at a discount rate
For glossed mahogany with velvet drape
When we next met I peeked beneath the hem
Of her gown without permission
A lifetime’s chance for me—and what harm done
To Miss G in her condition?
ALUMNI INTERVIEW
Yes old enough to be your dad I am
Your granddad if I’d started in my prime
Though we’d no start at all, my ex and I
Then years slipped by and—Anyway, you’re here
Feel free to make yourself at home, my boy,
Draw up a chair! No, anyone but that--
And tell me how you plan to use your time
And what you hope to do with your degree
And all those lies: Malaria you’ll cure,
Alzheimer’s too. Or represent the poor
In courts across the god-forsaken land.
Speak Norse, read Greek, translate Harappan script
To Hmong. Remind me which Olympic team
You led—about those kids you kept afloat
While hardly knowing how to swim yourself--
Those circles that you squared, those giants felled--
Cold fusion in a bottle, is that right?
I’d thought them lightning bugs—’tis just as well.
I’ve heard it all before. And dreamed it too.
You think you’re such a cut above the rest?
That no one else had ever thought he might
Transform the world? Or make a lasting mark
Upon something somewhere?
That chair will do.
Please set aside the books.
Your granddad if I’d started in my prime
Though we’d no start at all, my ex and I
Then years slipped by and—Anyway, you’re here
Feel free to make yourself at home, my boy,
Draw up a chair! No, anyone but that--
And tell me how you plan to use your time
And what you hope to do with your degree
And all those lies: Malaria you’ll cure,
Alzheimer’s too. Or represent the poor
In courts across the god-forsaken land.
Speak Norse, read Greek, translate Harappan script
To Hmong. Remind me which Olympic team
You led—about those kids you kept afloat
While hardly knowing how to swim yourself--
Those circles that you squared, those giants felled--
Cold fusion in a bottle, is that right?
I’d thought them lightning bugs—’tis just as well.
I’ve heard it all before. And dreamed it too.
You think you’re such a cut above the rest?
That no one else had ever thought he might
Transform the world? Or make a lasting mark
Upon something somewhere?
That chair will do.
Please set aside the books.
MINIMUM SECURITY
The girl who fell down the well.
That’s where my brother retreats,
Behind the tempered glass partition,
Serving a year short one day
For financial offenses he won’t accept
And I cannot explain. He fishes
For her name. Other subjects
We have fast exhausted.
Do you remember how we all watched?
Fifty-eight hours, he says, the nation
Holding its breath. And didn’t they
Send a contortionist down, or a cop
Born without collar bones? He invokes
Samantha Smith, but she’s the apple-cheeked
Brunette who melted Andropov’s frown at ten
And fell out of the heavens three years later.
Along the way I penned her love notes,
Recopied to perfection under flashlight beams,
Stashed inside a drawer for lack of courage.
At the end of our minutes, the guards return:
We’re still struck on the well-child’s ordeal.
Once I fantasized of saving the girl myself,
Clavicles and all, but who am I to defy
The clammy depths for a stranger’s child
When I can hardly brave my own brother?
He remains the sort of guy
To shove a young girl down a well
In order to effectuate her rescue.
I know the name. Jessica McClure. I do not share.
On his breath, it might easily have been mine.
That’s where my brother retreats,
Behind the tempered glass partition,
Serving a year short one day
For financial offenses he won’t accept
And I cannot explain. He fishes
For her name. Other subjects
We have fast exhausted.
Do you remember how we all watched?
Fifty-eight hours, he says, the nation
Holding its breath. And didn’t they
Send a contortionist down, or a cop
Born without collar bones? He invokes
Samantha Smith, but she’s the apple-cheeked
Brunette who melted Andropov’s frown at ten
And fell out of the heavens three years later.
Along the way I penned her love notes,
Recopied to perfection under flashlight beams,
Stashed inside a drawer for lack of courage.
At the end of our minutes, the guards return:
We’re still struck on the well-child’s ordeal.
Once I fantasized of saving the girl myself,
Clavicles and all, but who am I to defy
The clammy depths for a stranger’s child
When I can hardly brave my own brother?
He remains the sort of guy
To shove a young girl down a well
In order to effectuate her rescue.
I know the name. Jessica McClure. I do not share.
On his breath, it might easily have been mine.
Jordan released her debut poetry collection, battle scars, at age 19 after maintaining a Wordpress poetry blog for a year. She currently attends Penn State University where she is attempting a degree in Biomedical and Mechanical engineering and writes for their school newspaper. Her biggest writing accomplishment would undeniably have to be her piece on Jesse McCartney because it has (hopefully) set her one step closer to meeting Justin Bieber.
puppet strings
there's an aching in my chest,
a pain that only dulls
when i known you're within reach
and one swift tug is all it would take
to pull you back in place
by my side
where i feel you belong.
but now you've gone and done
what i could never do
and severed the last of the flimsy strings
that still connected me to you.
i am uncomfortable with this empty space
and the freedom of my feet
no longer tied together by
the string that bound us in place.
a pain that only dulls
when i known you're within reach
and one swift tug is all it would take
to pull you back in place
by my side
where i feel you belong.
but now you've gone and done
what i could never do
and severed the last of the flimsy strings
that still connected me to you.
i am uncomfortable with this empty space
and the freedom of my feet
no longer tied together by
the string that bound us in place.
safety net
you built a net
behind your lies
to prevent yourself from hurting
too much
when the fall inevitably came.
a safety-net
you called it,
an ability to always bounce back
and quickly
i've watched you fall
and bounce back
so many times now
i wonder what would happen
if you fell without a net
and took the time
to rebuild yourself
brand new.
more stable
than the you
that came crashing down.
behind your lies
to prevent yourself from hurting
too much
when the fall inevitably came.
a safety-net
you called it,
an ability to always bounce back
and quickly
i've watched you fall
and bounce back
so many times now
i wonder what would happen
if you fell without a net
and took the time
to rebuild yourself
brand new.
more stable
than the you
that came crashing down.
dangerously comfortable
you are comfortable
to me and my mind
a safe place to fall into
and think,
about what could've been
our future
and what might have been
our past.
you are comfortable
and that is dangerous
because although
i know
there is no future for us
i can not stop thinking
about you and what could've been
had you followed me closely
that desperate night
or if i had found enough courage
to say what i might
want you to say – please stay.
instead you are just comfortable,
a place for my thoughts to
go and rest
for a while when i'd rather not
think about something that might help
my future
without you.
to me and my mind
a safe place to fall into
and think,
about what could've been
our future
and what might have been
our past.
you are comfortable
and that is dangerous
because although
i know
there is no future for us
i can not stop thinking
about you and what could've been
had you followed me closely
that desperate night
or if i had found enough courage
to say what i might
want you to say – please stay.
instead you are just comfortable,
a place for my thoughts to
go and rest
for a while when i'd rather not
think about something that might help
my future
without you.
sunrise
i get lost in the trees as they blur
before my tear stained eyes.
tiny water droplets slide down my
rosy cheeks, painting the skyline
with the colors of my palette
blues, greens, reds and oranges wash across my vision
and bathe my body in their glow.
there's a burning in my throat
a desire to release and tread on softer ground,
to take in the frigid breathes the cumulus clouds disperse
and send them deep into my gasping lungs,
revitalizing them within my weathered body.
these heavy strokes, so stark against what was once a blank canvas
are difficult to maintain,
at some point, i know, these colors will run dry.
but in the clearing up ahead, i see,
delicate purples and baby pinks cascading through the
branches, catching glimmers of the bouncing light
and painting the naked sky with the colors of a sunrise.
these memories are not of the heavy breaths,
but in deep lulls of the sanctity found in a calming season,
appreciating the fallen leaves,
crunching underneath the trampled soil
we run.
before my tear stained eyes.
tiny water droplets slide down my
rosy cheeks, painting the skyline
with the colors of my palette
blues, greens, reds and oranges wash across my vision
and bathe my body in their glow.
there's a burning in my throat
a desire to release and tread on softer ground,
to take in the frigid breathes the cumulus clouds disperse
and send them deep into my gasping lungs,
revitalizing them within my weathered body.
these heavy strokes, so stark against what was once a blank canvas
are difficult to maintain,
at some point, i know, these colors will run dry.
but in the clearing up ahead, i see,
delicate purples and baby pinks cascading through the
branches, catching glimmers of the bouncing light
and painting the naked sky with the colors of a sunrise.
these memories are not of the heavy breaths,
but in deep lulls of the sanctity found in a calming season,
appreciating the fallen leaves,
crunching underneath the trampled soil
we run.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet and social worker from Rochester, New York (U.S.). His work has been featured in the Hazmat Review, MORIA Poetry Journal, Chronogram Magazine, Ampersand Literary Review, The Mindful Word, The Angle, Mojave Heart Review, Red Porch Review, Up the River, and many others. George’s blogs, essays and letters to the editor have appeared in the USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, The Buffalo News, and more. He is the proud father of two beautiful children and works full time as a domestic violence and residential family counselor in Rochester.
A Good Kiss
A good kiss smells like nectar-filled
factories and feels like skin wrapped over
a corpse. Erupting from long-patient seeds,
it stands still in the mouth, as eyelids move
with the vaporizing speed of a crouching cougar
at a midday spring. Shimmering ghostly white.
A good kiss is petite, luminous, and stingless.
Buzzing like undisturbed bees sipping from
the edges covered with pink and emerald
beadwork, it knows figures are keeping watch.
A good kiss cries with ear-splitting choruses
and senses vibrations from thunder. Scorpions
and tarantulas scuttle underfoot, and the ground
cracks apart like crawfish shells and suckling bird bones
blasted to a minimum by the sun’s motionless coil.
factories and feels like skin wrapped over
a corpse. Erupting from long-patient seeds,
it stands still in the mouth, as eyelids move
with the vaporizing speed of a crouching cougar
at a midday spring. Shimmering ghostly white.
A good kiss is petite, luminous, and stingless.
Buzzing like undisturbed bees sipping from
the edges covered with pink and emerald
beadwork, it knows figures are keeping watch.
A good kiss cries with ear-splitting choruses
and senses vibrations from thunder. Scorpions
and tarantulas scuttle underfoot, and the ground
cracks apart like crawfish shells and suckling bird bones
blasted to a minimum by the sun’s motionless coil.
The Heart Erupting With Joy
The heart is a great
disk shaped system of gas.
A retinue of unlit planets-
a colossal swarm and a star
simply spluttering its way through
a long series of ordinary eruptions.
The heart is more massive than Saturn.
A ruthless sea. Clear on any night.
Clear as Castor and Pollux.
Dancing in the clear moonlight
like butterflies. Dying almost as
soon as it is born, the heart
dances in groups of newborn stars.
The heart is a constellation.
As it steadily grills the body,
it is made of the pain reduced
to ashes. The heart contracts.
The heart takes its place in
the interior. The heart brings
theory into line. Full. Abundant.
An upheaval of mountain ranges
and outbursts of volcanoes, the
heart erupts! Nearly circular in shape
and hanging from the lowest part of the
Moon- the darkest and brightest side of
the Moon-the heart is a large globular cluster
of planets erupted from long-patient seeds.
Motionless. Luminous. Scanning the darkness.
Tiny. Emerald. An accident by the standards
of the cosmos. The heart erupting with joy.
disk shaped system of gas.
A retinue of unlit planets-
a colossal swarm and a star
simply spluttering its way through
a long series of ordinary eruptions.
The heart is more massive than Saturn.
A ruthless sea. Clear on any night.
Clear as Castor and Pollux.
Dancing in the clear moonlight
like butterflies. Dying almost as
soon as it is born, the heart
dances in groups of newborn stars.
The heart is a constellation.
As it steadily grills the body,
it is made of the pain reduced
to ashes. The heart contracts.
The heart takes its place in
the interior. The heart brings
theory into line. Full. Abundant.
An upheaval of mountain ranges
and outbursts of volcanoes, the
heart erupts! Nearly circular in shape
and hanging from the lowest part of the
Moon- the darkest and brightest side of
the Moon-the heart is a large globular cluster
of planets erupted from long-patient seeds.
Motionless. Luminous. Scanning the darkness.
Tiny. Emerald. An accident by the standards
of the cosmos. The heart erupting with joy.
A Way Out
Today, the cloth of the cosmos
came undone at the seams-undone
like a bootleg Gucci handbag.
Today, entire continental coasts
were consumed in a New York minute.=,
the Pope declared heaven is not real and
Saturn was sucked into the belly of a black hole.
Today, all semblance of order evaporated into
the organic air of an American Spirit cigarette-
the bright yellow pack with that mild, additive free taste.
Today, the ice caps melted, capitalism collapsed. and
nothing will ever be the same again, as all Hell broke loose.
Today, for the first time, my son climbed out of his crib.
came undone at the seams-undone
like a bootleg Gucci handbag.
Today, entire continental coasts
were consumed in a New York minute.=,
the Pope declared heaven is not real and
Saturn was sucked into the belly of a black hole.
Today, all semblance of order evaporated into
the organic air of an American Spirit cigarette-
the bright yellow pack with that mild, additive free taste.
Today, the ice caps melted, capitalism collapsed. and
nothing will ever be the same again, as all Hell broke loose.
Today, for the first time, my son climbed out of his crib.
The Cinema
Rising from the bottom of an
unfillable sink of inside space,
the Cinema is a Mondrian; its
meanings come rushing over
hazy filters of digital luminescence:
a cosmology of sound and light,
blasting gigantic sweeping
images, like felled redwoods on
a dusky red cored forest floor.
unfillable sink of inside space,
the Cinema is a Mondrian; its
meanings come rushing over
hazy filters of digital luminescence:
a cosmology of sound and light,
blasting gigantic sweeping
images, like felled redwoods on
a dusky red cored forest floor.
Mendon Ponds
Life is just beginning to
dawn on most of us.
But that happens here quicker
than most other places.
Even though here, the glaciers
were lured into a dead end,
as the huge claws of time
hauled across the ground like
a long pause in someone’s
conversation, leaving shoulder humps
like a bison’s, in loosely
formed spherical organisms.
Here, I feel the improbability
of our connected minds.
Codes in the maple trees disguised
as art, the oughtness of an ant,
and all those obscure little
engines inside my cells.
Mendon…full of meandering
streaks of golden eagle wings
shrouding a teal-white glow.
Mendon…pixels of maroons and
Granny Smith apple greens,
and a pond dressed in
pastels of purple mandarin.
Mendon… a chemical reaction to grace.
I hear sermons in your stones.
dawn on most of us.
But that happens here quicker
than most other places.
Even though here, the glaciers
were lured into a dead end,
as the huge claws of time
hauled across the ground like
a long pause in someone’s
conversation, leaving shoulder humps
like a bison’s, in loosely
formed spherical organisms.
Here, I feel the improbability
of our connected minds.
Codes in the maple trees disguised
as art, the oughtness of an ant,
and all those obscure little
engines inside my cells.
Mendon…full of meandering
streaks of golden eagle wings
shrouding a teal-white glow.
Mendon…pixels of maroons and
Granny Smith apple greens,
and a pond dressed in
pastels of purple mandarin.
Mendon… a chemical reaction to grace.
I hear sermons in your stones.
Paddling Through Stars
Have we passed
the scientific realm?
In the everlasting
hunt for a better
point of view, all
simple conceptions
must be abandoned.
All truth eliminated,
when the news comes.
When the news came,
the three angles of a triangle
turned into a new
order of destruction-
The vital break
with human welfare,
that idea glowing in a
cemetery
of peaceful isolation.
The land is part of the water,
and we are paddling through stars.
the scientific realm?
In the everlasting
hunt for a better
point of view, all
simple conceptions
must be abandoned.
All truth eliminated,
when the news comes.
When the news came,
the three angles of a triangle
turned into a new
order of destruction-
The vital break
with human welfare,
that idea glowing in a
cemetery
of peaceful isolation.
The land is part of the water,
and we are paddling through stars.
Wild Rhubarb
A kiss studied
is more beautiful
than a kiss performed.
It gives nothing away.
When I kiss my wife,
I should remember it.
It never was meant to be
a handshake. And why do
we kiss to say goodbye?
These goodbyes stretching,
crowding the horizon...
A sound is burned but a kiss is alive.
Alive like a moose scarfing wild rhubarb.
is more beautiful
than a kiss performed.
It gives nothing away.
When I kiss my wife,
I should remember it.
It never was meant to be
a handshake. And why do
we kiss to say goodbye?
These goodbyes stretching,
crowding the horizon...
A sound is burned but a kiss is alive.
Alive like a moose scarfing wild rhubarb.
Always Ringing
To make the head
empty is such a heavy
thing to do.
For our minds are like
a set of clear buckets
hung out to gather rain.
And to be free of
that distance between
our father's voice
such an awfully close sound-
one ringing from the void.
empty is such a heavy
thing to do.
For our minds are like
a set of clear buckets
hung out to gather rain.
And to be free of
that distance between
our father's voice
such an awfully close sound-
one ringing from the void.
Iraq
Under the
sand, stones
and copper cups
and teapots and
the inescapable
fragments of the
Wall keep watch.
For once ago their
was a ballistic weapon
so powerful that it turned
day into night. It was the
death of isolation, as all
things would suffer together.
Somewhere under the
sand there is a galactic
center made of interstellar
dust, a place where the nightly
news stalks like a beast who
sabotages the magic trick.
All oracles of falsehood
under the sand, where the
temples have become soft
as bread slathered with honey.
sand, stones
and copper cups
and teapots and
the inescapable
fragments of the
Wall keep watch.
For once ago their
was a ballistic weapon
so powerful that it turned
day into night. It was the
death of isolation, as all
things would suffer together.
Somewhere under the
sand there is a galactic
center made of interstellar
dust, a place where the nightly
news stalks like a beast who
sabotages the magic trick.
All oracles of falsehood
under the sand, where the
temples have become soft
as bread slathered with honey.
Sahaj Sabharwal loves writing poems and thoughts. He lives in Jammu city, Jammu and Kashmir, India. He is 17 years old now a young poet . He has been awarded many awards in poem writing at State level, National and international level. He was also selected to be invited for the INTERNATIONAL WRITERS MEETING IN TARIJA and HUNGARY,EUROPE. He was awarded with the INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMA IN WRITING and INTERNATIONAL MERIT CERTIFICATE IN WRITING and was PUBLISHED BY THE YOUNG WRITERS ASSOCIATION IN UK and RECIEVED "CERTIFICATE OF PUBLICATION FROM UK". |
Friend's Departure
Time has come now ,
For an ending, wow.
Your friendship will be no more,
Your absence will make things bore .
Gossips with friends ,
Learning new trends .
Talks with us , you did ,
Forever, you are alive in our mind .
It's time to say you goodbye,
Hope you neither weep nor cry .
The time we spent together ,
In pleasant and harsh weather.
I remember those days,
Enjoyable past with your's craze.
Hope would fill Our frienship's gap,
In the presence of the wonder whatsapp.
In your presence No one notices how we spent this year,
Wish you prosperous happy journey my dear.
For an ending, wow.
Your friendship will be no more,
Your absence will make things bore .
Gossips with friends ,
Learning new trends .
Talks with us , you did ,
Forever, you are alive in our mind .
It's time to say you goodbye,
Hope you neither weep nor cry .
The time we spent together ,
In pleasant and harsh weather.
I remember those days,
Enjoyable past with your's craze.
Hope would fill Our frienship's gap,
In the presence of the wonder whatsapp.
In your presence No one notices how we spent this year,
Wish you prosperous happy journey my dear.
Categories
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ABDUL MALIK MANDANI
ABIGAIL GEORGE
CARL SCHARWATH
COLIN STEIN
DAVID MCLINTOCK
EG TED DAVIS
ELIZABETH FLETCHER
ERICA MICHAELS HOLLANDER
GEORGE CASSIDY PAYNE
HIMANSHU RANJAN
HOLLY DAY
HUSAIN ABDULHAY
IAN SINGLETON
JACOB M. APPEL
JEFFREY PENN MAY
JORDAN CORLEY
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KRISTEN FLANNERY
KYLE BRANDON LEE
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARCUS SEVERNS
MARK F. LINDSEY
NDABA SIBANDA
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
STACEY Z LAWRENCE
UZOMAH UGWU
WAYNE J. KEELEY
WILLIAM RULEMAN