Submission Policy

Submissions to THE BUG BOOK are now closed. However, we will continue to post a sampling of poems accepted for the anthology as we continue to work our way through the flood of last minute submissions.

Poetry (any form or style) and Micro or Flash Fictions wanted for an anthology on SMOKE. Not just the black clouds rising from the five-alarm fire next door, or the billowing plumes of smoke warning us of a forest fire, or the emissions from factory smoke stacks, apartment house incinerators, and crematoriums, smoke rings rise from cigarettes, smoke pours out of headshops, pipe shops & cigar stores--see that purple haze rising over the fields of poppies and marijuana we just planted--we've used it to communicate via smoke signals and skywriting, to cover our tracks and disappear with and without mirrors, combat the enemy on and off the battlefield, kill bugs, flavor food, cure illness, declare peace treaties, and fragrance our homes. Got the idea? Release it onto the page.

Guidelines: Submit up to three poems/micro fictions or two flash fictions at a time with a fascinating bio of 35 words or less, not just limited to publication credits, copy/pasted in the body of an e-mail (no attachments, please) to roxy533 at yahoo dot com & . We will also entertain up to six one-liners or 2 short stand up routines at time. Previously published work is OK as long as authors have retained the copyright, which will be returned to them after publication. Simultaneous submissions are encouraged. If your work is accepted elsewhere, and you still have obtained rights to republish, just let us know where and we'll be happy to acknowledge the other publication.

If you do not receive a response from us within a month of your submission considered it rejected and feel free to submit again. Due to the volume of submissions we cannot respond to each and every individual submission. Selection for the on-line edition are made on a ongoing basis as we receive your submissions. However, final selections for the print edition will made after the October 31st deadline. (In otherwords not everything that made the cut for the online edition will appear in print.) Please do not query. When in doubt, send the submission to roxy533 at yahoo dot com &

About This Blog

December 26, 2007
Dear Readers;

Here are some of the contributions we've received for our upcoming anthology, THE BUG BOOK, to inspire you to write and send us your own submissions, and to preview what's to come.

To see our other publications please visit our online bookstore at:

Roxanne Hoffman,
Publisher/Editor of Poets Wear Prada


Thursday, September 25, 2008

Adam Penna | Cicada Shell

Cicada Shell

This is the proof that you were born, the shell
where you became the mother of yourself.
Is that what all this singing is about?
Now the other sons recite the ordeal of
a second birth. The trees swell with the sound.

It seems like wind lifting the leaves or sunshine
arranged into a song. All transformation
should be this absolute. The evidence
of struggle not a jagged scar but one
line, precise as if made by a scalpel,

and the husk preserved in almost perfect shape
as if prepared for a return, a new
guest or a trick to win the weak adult
a moment to recover before escape

by Adam Penna

Adam Penna crawls along the ground, and sometimes rubs his wings together to make a beautiful sound. He is the editor of Best Poem and the author of a new chapbook The Love of a Sleeper, due out from Finishing Line Press this November (2008).


Robert Ghiradella | Torturing Insects

Torturing Insects

We loved squashing
them, watching
the green ooze out,
or burning them
alive with matches
or a watch crystal,
3 of us bent over,
sweating. Did
they suffer, feel
pain? Naw, not
pain, something else.

by Robert Ghiradella

Robert Ghiradella
Robert Ghiradella lives in Teneck, New Jersey, and is a retired Professor of English (CCNY). His poems have appeared in Confrontation, Kayak, Kansas Quarterly, among other publications. He is the author of one full-length book of poems, Fragments (Apple-wood Press, 1980),and one chapbook After Midnight (P & Q Press, 1999).


Rick Mullen | Dragonfly


The sky is turbofanned, but I see you
alight a dead twig in the apple tree
as I awake. Your wings disturb the blue
arcade where petaltail activity
connects the unseen dots in summer wind,
delineating air that combs across
the feathery hair of clover, whisper-thinned
along the treeline prequel to a toss
at dawning afternoon.

You bring the sun
and demonstrate a marble in your wings,
a crystal reckoning at apex. Gun-
grey racquets twitch until the engine sings
and jostles the subalterns, the soubrettes
and grunts of August, to their fighter jets.

by Rick Mullen

Rick Mullin Self Portrait

Rick Mullin's chapbook, Aquinas Flinched was published by Modern Metrics in 2008. His poems have recently appeared in 14X14, The Bare Foot Muse, Umbrella, Bumbershoot, Shit Creek Review and The Chimera. Visit Rick's blogspot Waiting for Cassowary at

© 2008 Rick Mullen

Steve Bloom | Fireflies...

Fireflies . . .

. . . do not shed enough light
to make any difference
in the level of darkness.
Each merely announces,
"I am here, ready
to connect with another,
of my own kind who
may be hovering

Most people I know
do not light up the night
either. Still I wonder why
we do not try to glow
at least as brightly
as the firefly.

by Steve Bloom

Steve Bloom
Steve Bloom is a lifelong social activist whose poems have been published in print journals including Caprice, Ha! and Against the Current. Visit him online at:


Craig Fishbane | Centipede


You loiter in my hallway
like some biker on the street corner—
Marlon Brando in leather
on a black and white poster.

I’m no match for you
in sweatpants and slippers—
even this magazine
isn’t hip enough for your taste.

To be squashed by The New Yorker
the ultimate indignity—
a page with the current cinema,
a cartoon and a carcass.

Any insect would flee
at the sight of their final subscription,
but you stare me down
with arthropod eyes.

by Craig Fishbane

Craig Fishbane

Craig Fishbane is a poet and a teacher. He is kind to all bugs who do not crawl near his bed.


Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Yolanda Coulaz | Summer Of My Seventh Year

Summer of My Seventh Year

On a warm August day
air thick as custard,
clinging to leaf and stem
cicada chirps a taps, a dirge,
surrendered in the grips
of the Praying Mantis.

What I want is to close my eyes,
to turn away. What I want
is to intervene
to make it stop. But I stay—

wrapped in the blanket
of cicada’s bittersweet song
same as every other summer sound;
his knell known to the nymph,
his brethren beneath my earth,
or perhaps known only to me.

by Yolanda Coulaz

Yolanda Coulaz
Yolanda Coulaz, founder of Purple Sage Press, teaches poetry writing workshops and hosts the Farmingdale Library Reading Series. SUNY Stony Brook uses her book Spirits and Oxygen in an advanced course in poetry.


Donovan White | Rapture


Darning needles stacked on paddle blade
Suspend in summer amber
Over depthless blue.

Could be truest true love.
Could be ravening hunger.
Could be murderous rage.

Might be simple rapture
Captured by the day.

by Donovan White

Donovan White lives in a formerly small house in the woods infested by ants, mice, and spiders. The house is twice as big as it started out; so is he, for that matter.


Chansak Suwanchaichinda | Man Malaria Mosquito

Man Malaria Mosquito

Sub-Saharan Africa
a remote village
a hut rested on the earthen ground
walled with pieces of wood
a roof of leaves

A new dawn
beams of sunshine sneak through
greeting a young child
safe in mother’s arms
befriended the birds
singing happy tune
tall trees waving joyfully

Yet a darkest night
orchestrated with sounds
of creatures from the forest,
a two-winged insect,
uninvited to the hut
like a thief
robbing nothing but blood
from the unfortunate child
releasing malaria parasites
while engorging the red fluid

Fever and chill
the young soul weakened
like the moon being consumed
by the dark cloud
trees stop dancing
birds disappear
the world becomes quiet
the last star light
no more power to hold on
fading slowly
and perish

by Chansak Suwanchaichinda

After receiving a PhD degree from Rutgers University, Chansak Suwanchaichinda worked as a medical entomologist at the Department of Disease Control, Ministry of Public Health of Thailand. He is currently Assistant Professor in Biological Sciences and Public Health at the State University of New York - Empire State College, NY. And confesses to participating in poem composition competitions during his high school years.


Monday, September 22, 2008

Alan Montgomery | Beekeeper Guy

Beekeeper Guy

When you listen carefully
you can hear bees eating
when you look carefully
you can see their tongues
dipping into fresh nectar
when you smell carefully
you can detect the aroma of the hive
and you are moving slowly
breathing in and out
taking care to be as quiet as possible.

It's hot here today
even in the shade
I lift the heavy honey super
bees buzz around my head
sweet smell of wax and nectar
mixes with the smell of smoke
wafting into the heaviness of air
which surrounds and envelopes
body, mind, and soul
on a day like this
you breathe, sweat, and love life. :-)

by Alan Montgomery

Alan Montgomery

Alan Montgomery is an artist born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, now residing in the USA. He works at a small upper midwest university. Visit him online at where you can see a sampling of his artwork.


Beverly Fenig | Maggots


The Maggots that feed on mind
Devour eternity
Empty the eyes
And swallow hunger

Only a paltry pang remains
A dying pain

When I look into your eyes
My own star
And lost is the real work
That such loves mar

O where's the decree
To sanction release?
The maggots, the beasts, never cease

by Beverly Fenig-Ducat

Beverly Fenig-DucatBeverly Fenig-Ducat has taught writing classes at Queens College and Queensborough Community College for many years. She has published poetry in such journals as A Shout in the Street and The Women's Coalition Journal. She has given poetry readings at Queens College and has read her poetry on radio station WBAI.