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David Moolten's Blog

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Louder Than A Bomb
Louder Than A Bomb is the name of a scholastic slam poetry competition in Chicago. It’s also the title of a new movie from Greg Jacobs and Jon Siskel, a documentary focusing on teens from four different high schools as they prepare for the annual competition. The strategy of filming the run up to...
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Here is a recent podcast interview I did in anticipation of the screening of "Astronaut Goes From Migrant Fields To Outer Space" at the WILDsound TORONTO Film Festival this Saturday, May 1st. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83d_ABdX_b0&feature=player_embedded#! I'm happy for the...
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Lillian and David Brummet are the gracious hosts of the blogtalkradio program, Authors Read, a weekly fifteen minute broadcast presenting live as well as prerecorded readings by storytellers, poets & writers.  Produced in Canada, the show is international and both the featured artists and the...
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I’m excited about the recent selection of my short film “Astronaut Goes From Migrant Fields To Outer Space” for inclusion in the Hearts and Minds Film Festival in Delaware next month. This will be the film’s premier screening at a festival, and is in fact the first film that I have submitted for...
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A Walk Through the Memory Palace
Pamela Johnson Parker is an adjunct professor of composition and creative writing and a medical language specialist in Western Kentucky.  Her poems, flash fiction and essays have appeared in or are forthcoming in The Binnacle, The Other Journal, New Madrid, Pebble Lake Review, Holly Rose Review,...
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  Haus LebensWert is a philanthropically developed and supported facility in Cologne, Germany where patients may receive oncology services free of charge.  An integral part of Haus LebensWert’s vision and mission is to vigorously help cancer patients cope with life both during treatment and...
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  Understanding how a patient makes sense of chronic or disabling illness can be critical to the effective treatment of that illness.  Repairing the body doesn’t necessarily repair the life. Patients must confront changes to their bodies and in how they live their lives, psychological...
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  It is now a common practice for first year medical students to take part in a ceremony honoring the donors of cadavers used in dissection for the teaching of anatomy. The manner of the students’ participation is up to them; the reading of poetry, including original poems is not uncommon....
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  I think part of the problem with modern “criticism” is that much of it isn’t really criticism, not in the traditional sense. There are few critics today like T.S. Eliot (not going back too far), who wrote about poetry from the standpoint of a core philosophy he had engineered. I don’t...
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  This will play right into Obama’s hands. Humanitarian, compassionate. They’ll use this to, to burnish their, shall we say, credibility with the black community, the both light-skinned and dark-skinned black community in, in this country. It’s made-to-order for him. That’s why he couldn’t...
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  When my children were younger they frequently interrogated me regarding my favorites.  Favorite color, favorite cookie, favorite monster etc.  I generally dodged these questions because I found them so hard to answer.  My favorite?  I had too many, couldn’t decide on one.  Even five was hard...
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    Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey and has lived in China, Kansas, and Italy.  For the past 16 years she has resided in Frankfurt, Germany, where she works as an editor for a news agency.  Her poems have appeared in West Branch, Juked, Yemassee, Front Porch, and Barrelhouse, among...
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  What’s great about happiness is how generous it is, how non-judgmental, how it comes to you like a lost cat, like an overseas call from an old friend, like the smell of your mother's cookies on the day you confess your bad report card, like your teenage child turning to you, taking and...
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       My favorite Christmas was the year my father returned.   We sat where we always sat in the living room, leaning from our chairs, poised to start tearing at the flimsy paper, my sisters smiling and pointing at the orange seat covers on the furniture our mother still protected for...
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  Kid’s bangs blending with tall grass, we watched Them cross the lot, some stumbling already, brush Aside the door, entering a place that wanted No part of us. What went on in there? We wondered and wished we could know and better Than know. The red slab swung wide then slammed,And like the...
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