Anuja Ghimire My Child Draws Her eyes believe each new color on the empty paper as the pencil strikes defibrillate my waning heart. Anuja Ghimire lives in Dallas and with her husband and two little girls and writes poems.
Read MoreDale Wisely
Pearl Pirie: “Measured movements”
Pearl Pirie Measured movements I’m still weeding except where a snail — that patron saint of sow weed— trails and last week’s caterpillar is already transforming into a Monarch. Pearl Pirie writes out of Ottawa, Canada when not being a cat-butler.
Read MoreRobert Gregory: “Wren—How to Identify”
Robert Gregory Wren—How to Identify A being the size of a thumb tail cocked up like a spoiler or a cap worn backward and a loud ferocious delighted song that translates as get the fuck out of my way, Fatasses! Robert Gregory lives down by the river and looks out the window when he should […]
Read MoreSara Hughes: “After He Leaves”
Sara Hughes After He Leaves When you find yourself cooing to the window, “Pretty please, Pretty please,” in your most coy voice, remember: this too will end, and in the kitchen, a slice of watermelon juicy as a mouth, begs to be bitten. Sara Hughes earned a Ph.D. in English from Georgia State University in […]
Read MoreLaura M Kaminski: “He’s Not Heavy”
Laura M Kaminski He’s Not Heavy I’m struck again by social science implications embedded in the ink of reference, this entry in the dictionary where care means affection, also burden. Laura M Kaminski’s poetry page is at arkofidentity.wordpress.com.
Read MoreTrish Lindsey Jaggers: “Cows Lying at the Watering Hole”
Trish Lindsey Jaggers Cows Lying at the Watering Hole Old brown eyes slow-close while umbrellas of willows drip dry shade on parched grass. Trish Lindsey Jaggers (from somewhere in Kentucky) still writes with a pencil, a very sharp one.
Read MoreBill Yarrow: “Forgive Me, Leonard Cohen”
Bill Yarrow Forgive Me, Leonard Cohen There’s a price on everything and that’s how the dark begins. Bill Yarrow is the author of Blasphemer and other books.
Read MoreTerry Ofner: “Mailbox”
Terry Ofner Mailbox Clare regards the mailbox torn from its post and flung by the storm through the living room window and wonders if the mailman—he is a man—will take the time to maneuver around the downed tree limbs that litter the gravel driveway, step carefully through the broken glass, walk across the sodden Persian carpet, and […]
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