Betsy Mars The Well I walked in the jaundice glow of the strung-out streetlights, dove into the ink – pool of the endless night. Betsy Mars is sometimes visited by poetry in her dreams when the monsters retreat to the closet.
Read MoreDianne Moritz Once darts of glass stung the kitchen floor, while you watched, holding yourself, silent. Dianne Moritz writes poetry for children and adults, to entertain and sort out difficult feelings.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar In Gratitude “thank you for showing me the morning stars and for the dogs who are guiding me” -W.S. Merwin Thank you for these tired eyes, and for the joy of sleep on a sweet bed, shared for oranges and grapes, for all the sharp flavors of spices and wine for the air […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar On My Wrist I wrote your name on my wrist with my bad handwriting, and somehow the letters formed a pattern of leaves, or vines, that grew and stretched down my arm, tickling my flesh as tendrils spread, and purple grapes burst out of every stem because you have always been wine, swirling […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Sacred The rabbi of joy and wakefulness follows his students toward the library where shadows of books slide along shelves in fluorescent light and nobody speaks because the air is sacred with words, scented with the perfume of ancient poems. Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and […]
Read MoreJulian Olson Paranoia Crickets are critics. Julian Olson writes: “I am a high school freshman at Delaware Academy in Delhi, NY. My dad had a poem in here a few months ago. My poems are better than my dad’s, because mine have a point. … I previously submitted this poem, and you liked the idea […]
Read MoreNancy Kay Peterson Resignation Winter nights I lie beneath aunt’s comforter and grandma’s quilt, the only soul left alive to know the meaning of their weight and warmth. Nancy Kay Peterson’s short poetry has appeared most recently online on One Sentence Poems, Spank the Carp and Three Line Poetry.
Read MoreNeil Creighton I woke this morning to music of breath and skin, dark cascade of pillowed hair, a jacaranda-blue sky dancing through the curtains and kookaburras exultant celebration of day. The Australian poet, Neil Creighton, is ever the optimist.
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