John Riley Twigs When you wake from a stranger’s sleep the day is not a dove to light in a green cloud of trees, nor does the sum of each tree’s branches equal the branch from which they come. John watches trees grow in North Carolina.
Read MoreRobert E. Petras This Day Again As I see my grandfather lob a baseball that lands a soccer ball at the feet of my granddaughter I realize that we go through this life not in straight lines but in a series of arcs. Robert E. Petras resides in the small town of Toronto, Ohio, is […]
Read MoreJoy Kettren Anna Mae Her mind is a book with a broken spine, opening to the same few, favored passages again and again. Joy Kettren had a late start, but has been writing poetry for about 15 years. She has been published in several journals, and would like to be a full-time poet when she grows […]
Read MoreGonzalinho da Costa I like my tea hot and sweet— hot thermal blooms, sweet billowing mists— suffusing beverage of crow-black herbs, white-petal clouds, distilled memories, prophetic dreams. Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—is a management research andcommunication professional who writes poetry as a hobby.
Read MoreGonzalinho da Costa I like my coffee hot and black— hot hornet stings, black squid ink— heady broth of bitter cumin, red pine smoke, dusky forests, blue lightning. Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—is a management research andcommunication professional who writes poetry as a hobby.
Read Morejimat achmadi Mendengar nyanyian katak saat mata mulai mengantuk, seekor kunang-kunang menerangi mimpi. Listening to the frog’s song a firefly lights up my dream. jimat achmadi was born in Yogyakarta, writing to unravel himself on a traffic-jam.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar By the River Two girls, at most sixteen, pink hair, blue hair, frayed jean shorts, tee shirts with stenciled names and faces of bands, thin arms glowing in pale sunlight, talk softly, quiet children awed by mallards swimming in ripples not fifty yards from shore. Steve Klepetar lives near the Mississippi River in […]
Read MoreGil Hoy Phantom Limbs Stir the carrots in rabbit stew, fur hats squeak with hunger pangs. Gil Hoy writes poems in Boston, reads Wallace Stevens and tries cases before juries.
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