Debbie Collins The Herd in December The black cows on the snowy edge of the white field look like graffiti on the side of the train or sharps and flats on a sheet of music, their breath coming in clouds and their bellowing wish for the morning oats and hay as yet unfulfilled. Debbie Collins […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Glowworms A man plays trumpet on the Third Avenue platform, while the crowd swirls around him and my mother growls “I’d pay him not to play,” his notes glowing in the black tunnel like glowworms on a summer night. Steve Klepetar’s sons have forgiven him for chasing them around the house reciting the […]
Read MoreYvonne Zipter Kindred Spirits I understand the daffodils, whose mouths are perpetually round with astonishment. Yvonne Zipter writes poems and all kinds of other things, which you can discover at her website yvonne-zipter.com.
Read MoreYvonne Zipter Relief I thought I saw something scurry across the porch, but it was only the sunlight and the wind playing tag with the pine tree in the yard. Yvonne Zipter writes poems and all kinds of other things, which you can discover at her website yvonne-zipter.com.
Read MoreHowie Good Turning Japanese We were born into an idiotic age, given only clichés to speak growing up, warned not to change the words around or otherwise stray from the script, and we meekly obeyed, but today a bird in the pine outside our window piped a string of discordant notes once, twice, three times, […]
Read MoreAmy Randall Homesteading We don’t name the chickens for obvious reasons. Amy Randall used to be fabulous.
Read MoreAmy Snodgrass Three Miracles The water that has since washed them away -those structures built by my daughter, carefully or with abandon depending on the day- leaves patterns in the dirt, waves and trails and hiccups that become, after a sincere but brief mourning period, landscapes for new adventures in this extra fine dirt with […]
Read MoreMike Cole There is this morning snow on the ridge out our kitchen window and we are glad for the cold and the brightness. Mike Cole lives and writes and waits on the arrival of poems in the mountains of Central California near Yosemite.
Read More