Nina Prater How I Feel Every Night After My Kids Fall Asleep The trees can relax into the cold now their leaves have fallen to the floor of the forest, the slow job of building just one ring done for another year. An Ozark poet, Nina Prater lives in the woods with her husband, children, […]
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12/26/2022 — 0
Nina Prater “Acceptance”
Nina Prater Acceptance I have been on this earth forty years now and I still can’t leave behind a perfect acorn. An Ozark poet, Nina Prater lives in the woods with her husband, children, dogs, ducks, chickens, bunnies, turtles, a gerbil, and a guinea pig.
Read More12/23/2022 — 0
Gail Tirone “Nesting Dolls”
Gail Tirone Nesting Dolls Someone once gave me a set of wooden nesting dolls from Russia which I stood side by side, a line of six pretty girls with stylized smiles, rigidly round, each waiting to be filled by the next – like young girls everywhere awaiting fulfillment of themselves by others, of themselves by […]
Read More12/21/2022 — 0
Oliver Kleyer (Untitled)
Oliver Kleyer May your day be as balanced as the moon in the morning sky. Oliver Kleyer is a teacher and poet from Northern Germany and a regular visitor of state fairs.
Read More12/19/2022 — 0
Oliver Kleyer (Untitled)
Oliver Kleyer At sunrise, my train drives slowly through a painting by William Turner. Oliver Kleyer is a teacher and poet from Northern Germany and a regular visitor of state fairs.
Read More12/16/2022 — 0
Dominik Kai Brotherton “Own Goal”
Dominik Kai Brotherton Own Goal People laughed, but they couldn’t take it away from me: it was a mistake, but at least it was mine. Dominik Kai Brotherton is a microbiologist who arranges words for shits and giggles.
Read More12/14/2022 — 0
Elizabeth Fevyer “Lemons”
Elizabeth Fevyer Lemons Think about a cut lemon for long enough, my therapist says, and you’ll salivate, so I imagine your cheekin the palm of my handand wait for the death to drain out of me. Elizabeth Fevyer lives in […]
Read More12/12/2022 — 0
Ryan Brennan “Slightly Off to the East”
Ryan Brennan Slightly Off to the East I can hear the sounds of an owl Rising up through the pines Shaped like rings of smoke Floating from my grandad’s lips. Ryan Brennan is a poet living in the Catskill Mountains who writes poems his mother will read.
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