Clifton C. Phillips

(Bellflower, California, USA)

Seeking Publisher - Poem by Clifton C. Phillips

for children's books. One subject is about America's newest icon for values, culture, fashion, and perfection in general, Martha Stewart. Another is about a new legend originating in Hispanic culture. Good sales potential in both Spanish and English. Both of these manuscripts are designed as thirty-two page books to be read aloud (I have talented professional illustrators working on both). Interested Publishers/Financial Supporters, please contact me through The International Library of Poetry, 1 Poetry Plaza, Owings Mills, MD 21117 or fax me at (562) 531-6681 (I have many other completed manuscripts). Excerpt from: CHUPACABRA: AKA El Chupacabra, The Goat Sucker By now the goats had settled down. They came wandering out of their shed to greet the two Children.
Then, Armando spotted the first evidence. It was one blue feather. Carla was the one who found the drinking straw. After examining it closely, Carla exclaimed, "Look it has blood on it! Chupacabra!"
Waterworld Wonderment It's the best of times while sitting on the edge of the boardwalk. Watching the gulls as they soar as kites upon the wind, forever chasing and fussing with each other. One stops and stares at me with a quizzical look of head-cocked wonderment, cast as the sandwich morsel in my hand that I brought to share. Later while on the shore, bucket in hand, I pause to wriggle toes in the sand, and a lone gull rises before the crashing wakes, screeching as it goes. I wonder of the numbers and thoughts of those long ago who have passed before me on these same sands, and of the recent prints left behind that I see, all to be quickly washed by the silvery sheet of slimey brine, and tumbling, flowing, grains of sand forever. I round the bend and plod up into the bay where the high tides come. That's where I see a treasure chest to explore with time at hand. I wonder of the times when men set sail upon that crumbling and broken hulk that lies in a final resting place, as roost and lookout for the hungry horde of squawking gulls, when traversing on the feeding grounds they purposely go day after day. What was the name that graced that derelict? How did it come by that fate?


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Read poems about / on: culture, poetry, america, children, fate, wind, child, work, rose



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 2, 2003



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