Mr and Mrs Rothshaw’s slamming gate |
Thomas Joseph is a retired physician living in upstate New York who is new to writing for the non medical audience. He has published multiple medical peer reviewed articles over the course of his practicing career. In retirement he has remained engaged in medicine by teaching in a nursing program, He also teaches English to immigrants through the Literacy New York Program and enjoys traveling writing short story fiction and poetry, painting with watercolor and as of late helping to care for his year old twin grandsons, Curtis and Wesley. |
On Escorting Miss Pippa
A Lone Begonia
A nursery where we agonize
As to the flowers to select
To provide our garden a pleasing effect
I always do request
For a begonia to be a guest
If only for this year
To provide me some cheer
The begonia appeals to my aesthetic
Toward it I am never apathetic
My search for the perfect one frenetic
For which I remain unapologetic
Its petals delicate and flaccid
Afford me a sense of the placid
The hue I most cherish is peach
Like the sands of a coral beach
My wife this year acquiesced
To this my ardent request
Despite it conflicting with the theme
Of this season's intricate planting scheme
So if you're passing by
See if you can spy
That lone begonia in the flower bed
Knowing then you have not been misled
On the Tenacity of the Humble Dandelion
For life the dandelion is by far the best
Sprouting from every pavement crevice
Attests to its ubiquitous presence
Despite my liberal application of herbicides
Its lawn population but intensifies
Like severing the mythical Hydra's head
Where I uproot one two arise instead
The delicate winged seeds of its white fluff ball
Settle and grow with no urging at all
They inhabit the most unlikely places
And soon there's another crop of bright yellow faces
Perhaps I should take the environmentalists' suggestion
And hand over my yard to nature's possession
An Unexpected Grace
or
On Seeing Two Birds In One Day
Not a cloud in the blue hiding the light
As a solitary traveler on Krumkill Road
I was granted a marvelous sight to behold
My eye drawn to a circling bird
A hawk I surmised but my vision was blurred
To fathom the sight I quick stopped the car
While yet transfixed, a raptor swooped down from afar
By his white crown and coal black wing
Surly, I beheld the avian king
He alighted on a near fence rail
Awarding me the moment to exhale
I wondered at his austere poise
About him not a flutter or noise
His head jerked left to right then froze
Allowing me to admire his pose
Then both his beady eyes did stare
Over the stream for a fish to snare
Will never know how went the search
At that instant he flew from his perch
Who can ignore such a wondrous sight
When an eagle takes off in flight
He climbed with unlabored ease
Enjoying the kiss of a passing breeze
While yet savoring this moment of grace
A blast from a horn made my heart race
The spell broken I looked in dismay
As a passer flipped me “the bird”, my second of the day
Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 39 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 210 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717. https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Lee-Johnson/e/B0055HTMBQ%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type= Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/ |
Flower Girl
they live, then die, walk alone in tears,
resurrect in family mausoleums.
They walk with you alone in ghostly patterns,
memories they deliver feeling unexpectedly
through the open windows of strangers.
Silk roses lie in a potted bowl
memories seven days before Mother’s Day.
Soak those tears, patience is the poetry of love.
Plant your memories, your seeds, your passion,
once a year, maybe twice.
Jesus knows we all need more
then a vase filled with silk flowers,
poems on paper from a poet sacred,
the mystery, the love of a caretaker−
multicolored silk flowers in a basket
handed out by the flower girl.
Silent Moonlight (V2)
Hurt love dangles net
from a silent moonlight hanger,
tortures this damaged heart
daggers twist in hints of the rising sun.
Silence snores. Sometimes she’s a bitch.
Sunlight scatters these shadows
across my bare feet in
this spotty rain.
Sometimes we rewind,
sometimes no recourse,
numbness, no feeling at all.
July 4th, 2020, Itasca, Illinois (V4)
(At Hamilton Lakes)
past and gone, freedom fighters
blow past wind and storms.
Patriotism scared, etched in the face of cave walls.
There are no cemeteries here for the old,
vacancies for the new.
Americans incubate chunks
of patriotism over the few centuries,
a calling into the wild, a yellow fork stabs me.
Today happiness is a holiday.
Rest in peace warriors, freedom fighters,
those who simply made a mistake.
I gaze out my window to Hamilton Lakes
half-drunk with sparkling wine,
seeing lightning strikes ends,
sparklers, buckets full of fire.
Light up the dark sky, firecrackers.
Filmmakers, old rock players, fume-filled skies,
butts of dragonflies.
Patriotism shakes, rocks, jerks
across my eye’s freedom locked
in chains, stone-carved dreams.
*This year, 2020, due to COVID-19 I watch fireworks off my condo balcony alone,
share darkness alone, share bangers in the open sky.
Fall Thunder (V2)
There is thunder in this power,
the powder blends white lightening
flour sifters in masks toss it around.
Rain plunges October night; dancers
crisscross night sky in white gowns.
Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around,
leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound,
pound repeat falling to the ground.
Halloween falls to the children's
knees and imaginations.
Kettledrums.
Alethea Jimison is a poet and author. Her work has been featured in Queer Voices, Adelaide Magazine, Literary Yard, and Poetry Nation. Alethea loves writing stories that challenge the reader to make the world a better place through personal development and accountability. You can find out more about Alethea’s work at www.aj-thewordsmith.com. |
The Hammer of Racism
Racism is an insidious illusion that hides in the open within our modern society. Whitewashing and brainwashing happen daily on our TV.
Some people don’t even know that they are the problem. Brown and golden skin pitted against pale and yellow skin. We’ve been conditioned to deny our own humanity within.
We are all the echo of a limitless ancestry. Most of our history has been suppressed and beaten into the shadows as our color was smothered in mass genocides.
The historical obliteration of millions of colors of the rainbow has been denied.
The school books lie to our children and tell us that some pale-face discovered America with impunity. Our government institutions close every year to honor his raping and destruction of a whole racial identity.
We have the power to create unity with unconditional love and denial of a specific racial identity.
I am unspecified- I am the light. I come from a long line of Africans and Shamans of Turtle Island before They stole our history and renamed my home America.
I am human...Hue-man… I am the light I see within you. I am no longer the child who was never good enough because of a label that was never true.
I release myself from the pain caused by the racism within my own roots. Rejected by the unloving and unloved in their own bitter inner disputes.
Ignorance was the factory that produced the labor of judgment on a conveyor belt of automated conditioning. We grew up to be beautiful against all mockery because all colors of the rainbow are Godly.
Today I am free but I remember the journey of the little mulatto who believed she was nobody.
Ghetto Symphony
We lived across the street from a liquor store and the illegal activity was so bad, we were one step away from having a door to door crack salesmen as a form of entrepreneurial representation of our economic depression.
Snap! The sound of bullets as usual even in the bright light of day. We slam our bodies down to the pavement and try to shimmy-crawl away.
Someone tried to rob the liquor store as usual. Crack money is always in demand. He’s running from the bar-crossed doorway with something in clutched his hand.
Suddenly, a sound like firecrackers explodes from the store. He drops everything and the sight of blood bursting from his chest was like the finale of a fourth of July show. The sound of children playing is abruptly silenced. Just another terrifying day in the ghetto.
The sound of sirens never ended. Instead of dancing to the melodies of beats and symphonies, we were ducking and rolling to the sound of bullets and the never-ending wails of ambulances mimicking the cries of the hopeless.
Free from the Ghetto
My teacher told me that poverty is an inherited part of most people’s destiny. I will not accept that! I will not live in fear of the boogeyman coming to shut off the water and electricity.
I will be able to pay my bills. I’m not going to make the same mistake that my mother made by letting some man come along and tell me he loves me so that he can walk away and leave me filled with his seed.
Six kids, no job, no man and no hope. Guess that’s why some women choose to sling that dope.
Sell that tail because we’re taught that the only asset we have as women in the ghetto is a low-cut shirt, tight pants and a good flirt.
These grown women telling us teenagers that we need to find a good enough man to pay our bills and take care of us. I can’t accept that. I’m man enough to take care of myself.
OK breathe, I can do this. I’m going to have to talk like a white person so that I can get a good job. Wait- that’s stupid. Being proper is not a white thing. What am I saying?
Articulate, crisp, concise language management makes me sound more intelligent.
“Were you in the boat when the boat tipped over? No silly I was in the water.” Pish posh proper talk. That’s what I have to train myself to do.
No mo’e saying go’n to the sto’e- I mean- “Say, I am going to the store.” My jaw aches from all of this over-modulating. I keep going- this is Olympic style training.
Shoulders back! Chin up! Momma helped me put the book on my head so that I could learn how to glide like a queen. She was proud of me for trying to be free. She promised me that I can be anything I want to be.
Every day, I read the pages of the dictionary and begged for the Encyclopedia Britannica for my birthday so that I could teach myself about a world outside of slang and gangs.
I wrote new words that I never heard of on small index cards and posted them on the refrigerator as my word of the day. The gap between me and the ghetto grew wider as I heard my sister’s friends mutter to her “what the heck did she just say?”
Racial Obscurity
The discrimination came from both directions. I was never black enough to “understand the struggle of racism” according to my own people.
I was yellow blood, an outcast with my crisp articulation of self-obtained education.
I started hanging out with Maria with her flashy Latina eyes. She took me home to her family and they scoffed at the “Mexican” who didn’t know her own legacy. “¿Por qué no hablas español?” I was asked scornfully.
What did I do? Since I was never black enough to “Represent” and I was not white enough to be legit, I learned Spanish and blended in with the other brown skins.
No one represented my biracial ancestry. I hear, black power, white power… I never heard anyone say biracial power!
I became wrathful of the need to identify as anything. I was defensive from being discriminated against by people who were my family.
I’m not black. I’m not white. I’m tired of these labels that are used to create separation through false representations of a fictional identity.
The lack of biracial representation in our society is a blatant form of racial obscurity.
You won’t hear me complaining about how unfair the world is. I’m aware of the shortcomings of our broken community. People are too busy grasping for labels and marketed identities that they bear limited perception and become unaware of their opportunities.
Burning Phoenix of Metamorphosis
I am the burning phoenix of metamorphosis; the evolution of my own excuses and a representation of the promises I made to myself that no matter what I fear, I can and will excel.
I cannot and will not be contained by the colonized blocks of repetition and endless cycle of war and poverty that plagues my ancestry. I release myself from the bitterness of our bloody history.
My heartbeat is as fierce as thunder and there is a fire in my veins. I will not temper my light. I was meant to spread the passion of my conviction through flames. I will burn the house down of my programming that came from lies.
I am the burning phoenix of metamorphosis; the evolution of my own excuses and a representation of the promises I made to myself; no matter what I fear- I can and will excel.
Paolo Maria Rocco was born in Naples, lives in Fano (PU), Italy. He has a degree in Modern Literature from the University of Urbino; he holds a Postgraduate Master's Degree at the University of Florence in Computer Science in the Didactics of Humanities and in the educational use of Cultural Heritage. He taught for the University of Urbino as an adjunct professor (2004); professional journalist since 1995. Publications (books): - “Virginia, o: Que puis-je faire?”, Novel, 2015 (BastogiLibri, Rome); - "I Canti", poems, 2016 (BastogiLibri, Rome); - “Bosnia, appunti di viaggio e altre poesie”, poems, Publisher Ensemble of Rome, 2019; - "Antologia di Poeti contemporanei dei Balcani", Ed. LietoColle, Como 2019, edited together with the poet Emir Sokolovic (eighteen poets from: Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Kosovo, Albania, Romania, Macedonia), with translation 'in front' in Italian. The presentation of the "Anthology of Contemporary Poets from the Balkans" avails itself of the patronage of the Ambassador of Italy to Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Ambassador himself, Nicola Minasi, created a video-recorded intervention for this Anthology (broadcast to the public in Milan on November 25, 2019) in which he also emphasizes the function of the Anthology as a vehicle of Peace and Friendship among Peoples. Paolo M. Rocco has received national and international awards for poetry. His other books of poetry and literary criticism are in the process of being published. |
* 3.
sometimes with the thought that agrees, you said
for its motile forms to the step, and to cross
the way of wayfarers to identify me
in the chaos of my rooms, because I love to stumble
in its reverberations like the thick weave of the foliage
it envelops itself to find itself
still lost: it is all a cautious advance now and fast
between landings and rivers, unexpected and luxuriant loops
, a sudden turn in the channel and again it is one to explain
the sails and a stow together in the bowels
Headlamp flares, the rigid framework
of a building, its naked allusion and the eye
that adapts to the penumbra of lamps
swinging on the streets, the swirls of steam
from the grates, the plumes from the chimneys, an idea of smoke
of tavern. I'd do without it if it wasn't right
I am for this load that I carry: sometimes it is
to navigate on sight, to be on one side, a coin
to pay to proceed by ruling between the banks
the flood, the crowding of the images or the cliff
of impressions, the soul that I decline with life
(In italian language:
* 3.
Passeggiare prediligo sulla sponda, rapida
a volte con il pensiero che s’accorda, hai detto
per le sue motili forme al passo, e incrociare
il cammino dei viandanti per immedesimarmi
nel caos delle mie stanze, perché amo incespicare
nei suoi riverberi come della fronda il fitto intreccio
s’avviluppa su se stesso per ritrovarsi
ancora smarrito: è tutt’un avanzare cauto ora e spedito
tra approdi e riviere, imprevedute e rigogliose anse
, un repentino virare nel canale e di nuovo uno spiegare
le vele e uno stivare insieme nelle viscere
Bagliori di fanali, la rigida ossatura
di un palazzo, la sua allusione nuda e l’occhio
che s’adegua alla penombra di lampade
oscillanti sulle strade, le volute di vapore
dalle grate, i pennacchi dai camini, un’idea di fumo
da osteria. Farei di tutto a meno se non fosse giusto
ch’io sia per questo carico che porto: talvolta si tratta
di navigare a vista, di stare da una parte, una moneta
da pagare il procedere governando tra gli argini
la piena, l’affollarsi delle immagini o il dirupo
delle impressioni, l’animo che declino con la vita )
* 4.
Stari Most
wing, as I was just before, he says
that I would take flight in Neretva. Here
the vortex of the air, takes away
what has been, wait
and it declines indeciphered, divine
subtext to the buzzing question
on cables, on bony elbows
of lightning (which sound seems
of the heart that yearns, the ropes
They are vibrating): the dull crackle
of screams, do you hear it now? that varied
in the turbidity of the soul, and in towering
gloomy of the half-timbered trellis it tells you
that a word on the Stari Most was silent
on the other, in screwing from Halebija to Tara
of the wave above the wave, and if you then look
in the abyss, which has its language
even the river, its motion
that does not indulge and has no stop
*4.
Stari Most
Il guizzo di una piuma, il flettere
di un’ala, com’ero appena prima, dice
che spiccassi nella Neretva il volo. Ecco
il vortice dell’aria, porta via
quello che è stato, aspetta
e si declina indecifrato, divino
sottotesto all’interrogativo ronzante
sui cavi, sui gomiti ossuti
dei lampi (che il suono sembra
del cuore che smania, le corde
Che stanno vibranti): il crepitio sordo
dei gridi, ora lo senti?, che svaria
nel torbido dell’anima, e al torreggiare
cupo del traliccio a mezza costa ti dice
che una parola sullo Stari Most tacque
dell’altra nell’avvitarsi d’Halebija a Tara
dell’onda sopra l’onda, e se poi guardi
nell’abisso, che ha la sua lingua
pure il fiume, il suo moto
che non indulge e non ha sosta )
* 7.
of chairs, a patter of footsteps
and the impetuous breath that enters
from the entrance: the old plant
of the bar vibrates on the Bulevar Ezhera
Arnautovića and in the frame the opaque
synthetic drape flaps like a window
a broken glass. I look at the river from the terrace
suspended on the Bosna: a little flows
annoyed, the wind raises a carpet
of minute transverse waves, a drawing
geometric in transparent rows of rayon
Try a reflection of your silk gaze
pure that sketches just a disappointment
with the time that fades, and sudden
a license is cut on the arch of the lashes
stylized in the decoration of the Moorish. It looks like you
the summer that relaxes its limbs, I tell you
as I go out even more entangled in the bizarre
autumn, your lips, however, have no equal
that I investigate in the enchantment of saying words
in the form of an idea of life and nature
who chisels the bleak out of existence
fury of the earth, alienated even by language
* 7.
Sulle assi di legno un tramestio
di sedie, uno scalpiccio di passi
e il soffio impetuoso che entra
dall’ingresso: vibra l’impiantito
vecchio del bar sul Bulevar Ezhera
Arnautovića e nel telaio l’opaco
drappo sintetico s’agita come della finestra
un vetro rotto. Guardo il fiume dalla terrazza
sospesa sulla Bosna: un poco scorre
contrariato, il vento alza un tappeto
di minute onde trasversali, un disegno
geometrico in filari trasparenti di rayon
Tenta un riflesso dello sguardo tuo di seta
pura che abbozza appena un disappunto
con il tempo che trascolora, e repentino
si ritaglia una licenza sull’arco delle ciglia
stilizzato nel decoro del moresco. Ti rassomiglia
l’estate che distende le sue membra, ti dico
mentre esco ancor più avvinto nel bizzarro
autunno, le labbra tue però non hanno eguali
che indago nell’incanto del porgere parole
nella forma di un’idea di vita e di natura
che scalpella dall’esistenza il tetro
furore della terra, alienato persino dal linguaggio )
* 25.
lonely, erected on the door, and an emotion
that guides the soul to its vision: by ropes
of violin Stradivario the notes pour out
of solo music in my chest, you
told me they lead to granite rocks
more than a delight, a truth
valuable, naked as it is, not discordant
from the live embers buried by a heap
Of hot ash. While the song climbs
between sharp wrinkles that demand infinite care
many more ingenious forces to puncture the wall
during ascension. Finally, each fiber
it remains invaded: it hisses in the cracks
like the wind, it is an instrument in the bowels
of the earth and on the peaks, aerial imperfection
in the twinkle of the horizon and across the border
a heated anxiety divinely assails me
*25.
Di congeniale non v’è che un nume
solitario, eretto sul portone, e un’emozione
che guidi l’anima alla sua visione: da corde
di violino stradivario le note si effondono
di una musica d’assolo nel mio petto, tu
mi hai detto che conducono a rocce di granito
più che a un diletto, a una verità
di pregio, nuda com’è, non discordante
dalla brace viva sepolta da un cumulo
Di cenere rovente. Mentre il canto s’inerpica
tra rughe aguzze che pretendono infinita cura
tante di più ingegnose forze per forare la parete
durante l’ascensione. Ogni fibra infine
ne rimane invasa: sibila nelle crepe
come il vento, è uno strumento nelle viscere
della terra e sulle cime, aerea imperfezione
nello scintillio dell’orizzonte e oltreconfine
un’accesa inquietudine divinamente m’assale )
* 29.
they can be heard
not the thoughts, those
they go I would say in silence
unsealed by the lapping
of the sea full of senses: Idea
Spirit, Matter then return
to speak like never before
had happened in the language
of a world of perpetual motion
in the intimate riot, unheard of
The other to the human, hanged as it is
at its knot. Careless
you remembered of the frescoes
the soul is stretched to fire
of the submerged (on the shore
caliginous one grasps the void
casing of dried stars
, the macerated mash of seaweed
, twisted by a vertigo
soaked with salt), of what it is
excruciatingly fleeting in the flow
*29.
Le parole, mi hai detto
si possono ascoltare
non i pensieri, quelli
se ne vanno direi nel silenzio
dissigillato dallo sciabordìo
del mare colmo dei sensi: Idea
Spirito, Materia allora ritornano
a parlare come mai prima
fosse accaduto nella lingua
di un mondo dal moto perpetuo
nell'intimo sommosso, inaudita
L'altra all'umano, impiccato com'è
al suo nodo. Noncurante
hai ricordato degli affreschi
l'anima è tesa al fuoco
del sommerso (sulla riva
caliginosa si coglie il vuoto
involucro di stelle disseccate
, la poltiglia di alghe macerate
, chele contorte da una vertigine
intrisa di salsedine), di ciò che è
tormentosamente fuggevole nel flusso )
* 37.
the cry of the jay is almost one tone
and the magpie. Sometimes the seagull
joins the choir even higher
in its acute call. It seems to me so
to be on chaste, unexplored land
and already in its fall into a memory
active, of exotic illusory reality, inapparent
island before it became deaf
life to the spiritual worlds, to the good demons
Interior, so as not to be able to remember
asking for help ... so far away from me
so present. And I look, without dismay
some, the dwelling still lost in itself
, the empty discouragement (and above it is things)
, fate itself concluded at the source
that inspires it: vision does not act
of a shape preexisting matter, action
of the Idea is the living spark, you listen
its moves, it says, ooze on cogent reality
*37.
Dal giardino urbano s'alza di buon mattino
quasi di un tono il grido della ghiandaia
e della gazza. A volte il gabbiano
si unisce ancor più in alto al coro
nell'acuto suo richiamo. Mi sembra così
di stare su una terra casta, inesplorata
e già nel suo precipitare in una memoria
attiva, d'esotica realtà illusoria, inapparente
isola prima che diventasse sorda
la vita ai mondi spirituali, ai buoni demoni
Interiori, tanto da non potere al ricordo
chiedere ausilio... così lontana era da me
così presente. E guardo, senza sgomento
alcuno, la dimora ancora in sé spaesata
, il vuoto scoramento (e sopra stanno le cose)
, destino in sé concluso alla fonte
che la ispira: non la visione agisce
di una foggiata Materia preesistente, l'azione
dell'Idea è la favilla viva, ascolta
le sue mosse, dice, stilla sulla realtà cogente )
The Rabbit
the gang didn’t want him. Freak.
Nerve damage. Will be killed
because he’s a freak but mostly because
he tagged. A shape based
on how his own name sounds to him.
On a sign asking people
to care for the pocket park
it’s in, local initiative,
flanked by a church and the parking lot
of the plant. Crap, bottles collect;
someone tends. Someone tried
to rub away the tag.
By the time she crosses the parking lot,
his sister has twenty minutes
before she must return
to the plant. Eats healthy: stuff from home.
Rabbits have begun to enter
this region. She had never seen
a real rabbit. Six feet away,
one stares. She hopes no one kills it.
It’s sideways to her, doesn’t watch with
both eyes, like men or dogs,
only one. Is it sick?
OK Boomer
I sacrificed small animals to keep mine running.
Eventually we made a separate peace.
Separate, certainly, from its purposes.
But the means kept multiplying,
and were repeatedly explained to me,
in simple terms, with progressively less patience,
by people I liked less and less.
The end remained unclear. Why did you do that?
Why, while doing it, would you take
a photo of it and broadcast it to the world?
Is that person an athlete, musician, prostitute,
or anything worthwhile? What is a “meme”?
Is it a value?
Is it ethical or aesthetic?
Can you tell? What exactly is a “neckbeard”?
Why is someone who wears one
contemptible? Do I have one?
Is it better or worse than the hairs coming out of my ears?
They aren’t hairs, by the way.
I communicate through them with Galactic Central,
which accuses you of lack of imagination.
Rest Assured
whites
men
father
themselves
Preparing to flee then fleeing preferring
the filth outside to yours …
Rest assured:
If you live long enough
they give up nagging you to change
It would be physically impossible
and anyhow they’re gone
Categories
All
ALETHEA JIMISON
ALEX ANDY PHUONG
ALFRED NICHOLSON
ALLAN LAKE
ANNA KAPUNGU
ANTHONY WARD
BOBBY Z
DOUGLAS J. LANZO
DR. DOUGLAS YOUNG
EDDIE JONES
EDITH-MARIE GREEN
EDWARD FERRARI
FABRICE POUSSIN
FREDERICK POLLACK
GUNA MORAN
JAMES CROAL JACKSON
JEFFREY CLAP
JOHN TUSTIN
JOHN VALENTINE
JONATHAN CORLE (JON)
JOSEPH S. PETE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
LOIS GREENE STONE
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
MICHAEL SUMMERLEIGH
MICHELE REALE
NDABA SIBANDA
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
PAOLO MARIA ROCCO
PREETH GANAPATHY
REY ARMENTEROS
RIZWAN AKHTAR
ROBERT ROTHMAN
RON TORRENCE
SARA KIL
SATYAKI MUKHERJEE
SOCHUKWU IVYE
TARA DAVOODI
THOMAS JOSEPH
TYLER KERSHAW
WES MCDANIEL