John L. Stanizzi POND 4.28.19 7.18 a.m. 41 degrees Purple rosettes of the plum tree have just begun to emerge, the verdant opus of the skunk cabbage continues to slowly splay its wide whole notes, the nubbin leaves of multiflora roses are now everywhere, and a bluejay in the cedar distracts everyone with his incessant […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Mirror This is not a mirror, it’s not a lake turned on its axis, it’s not the sky drained of color on a winter’s day, but a door to a thousand lakes, each one spread out beneath a ring of pines, a door to the sky you can open to race at the […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Excuse Me But one thing you’ll never hear from a cat is ‘Excuse me.’ Nor Einstein’s famous theorem. Jane Hirshfield No, but if it could move at something approaching the speed of light, you might see a red glow in August, or green as it fell to the bottom of some extraterrestrial sea, […]
Read MoreElizabeth Gauffreau On First Hearing Odetta I heard Odetta sing today, A pipe organ in a chapel On a Georgia country road. Elizabeth Gauffreau writes poetry by ear in Nottingham, New Hampshire. You can find her at http://lizgauffreau.com.
Read MoreAshley Jones Inbox I check my email while I’m walking like the waiting coupon holds urgency or the calendar invite is an emergency and sometimes I forget the trees and I wonder after all this time how the trees will remember me. Ashley Jones likes to bend down and smell the flowers.
Read MoreKeith Polette At Sea Lying on the sea floor, able to breathe water, I look up and see the moon sailing over me, a few sailors leaning over its taffrail, gazing downward, their eyes bright as stars, and I wonder whether I should ever need to rise from this silent world so dimly lit from […]
Read MoreKeith Polette Hands Last night, by hearth’s faint light, I noticed that her small hands, worn from work, weathered with age, and wise in the ways of making and mending, were folded like wings on her lap, ready to take flight into a vast space that she kept to herself. Keith Polette has returned to […]
Read MoreLashelle Johnson Poplar I saw a man with my name on a map of the dead in the place my father was born. Lashelle Johnson is a Munich-born Afro-indigenous writer whose work has appeared everywhere from The Establishment to those riveting conversion emails littering your inbox.
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