Dale here. I am testing our email system that delivers our poems to our mailing list. We’re having a little trouble with it. It’s probably the heat. While I’m at it, I’m including one of our previously posted poems from the archives. Here’s Megan Merchant, from 2017. Megan Merchant The hospital intake form wants me […]
Read MoreKimberly Vargas Agnese A Chicana A Chicana is both brown and white: a field of one hundred yellow flowers. A Chicana poet from Fresno, California and a finalist for the 2022 Andres Montoya Poetry Prize, Kimberly Vargas Agnese has written for “Rappahannock Review,” “SHIFT Magazine,” “Anacua Literary Arts Journal,” and “Rue Scribe,” among others. […]
Read MoreThu Anh Nguyen Augur I’ve never trusted a groundhog, or a forecast because I just wait for the ladybugs to appear out of nowhere, one at a time, and then in a bloom, teaching me about taking refuge, the slow inching towards warmth. Thu Anh Nguyen is a poet whose Vietnamese name actually translates to […]
Read MoreGenoa Wilson Not About the Weather As daisies reach their foolhardy heads and gravel ticks the soles of my shoes I am trying to forget the language of snow Genoa Wilson teaches movement and writes poetry in central New York.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar All Night I Watched You Burn Your eyes turned turquoise, skin rippled in scarlet waves, but when dawn came, spreading over the sky like silk and glass I saw a body made of trees and light, a river shouting its name to the sea. Steve Klepetar can name the nine Muses and the […]
Read MoreJ.W. Goll John Barleycorn Cheap bourbon half empty on the counter, a warm icebox with Budweiser and Coke, a dozen empty wine bottles used as candle holders and vases, seven dollars on the table, a lumpy, colorless couch, my best fifteen minutes, over and over in this furnace that is America’s heart, none of which […]
Read MoreJ.W. Goll The Old West The gunslinger motel, no match for the blowing snow, offers three fuzzy channels, photos of Roy Rogers and Trigger, a noisy heater on its last leg, and a sense of loss, nameless in such places, a deja vu just out of reach, so I stick with Bay Watch and titillation […]
Read MoreHowie Good Recessional Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember things so well – my father the December the factory closed down, sitting in the house day after day, silent, brooding, one stray black shoe at the edge of a mass grave. Howie Good is a poet and collage artist on Cape Cod.
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