J.I. Kleinberg Song The song is no more than a diagram of longing plucked from the air, wings stilled against a shuddering heart, beak clutched around a final note, perhaps one of arrival, hope, love, a promise, or a warble of loss, twig dropped, nest unfinished, egg uncertain as tomorrow. Artist, poet, and freelance writer […]
Read MoreKirby Olson Paperboy Dogs barrelled out of the dark: their bite was worse than their bark. Kirby Olson‘s one book of poetry is called Christmas at Rockefeller Center.
Read MoreLynn Finger Days Even if I don’t cross the days off on the calendar, they leave anyway, a bright chain of pink daisy coral coins reeling into the high tide. Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the Journal of Compressed Arts and Ekphrastic Review, and she is part of a group that […]
Read MoreTim Hawkins Statuary We stand by the rail in the cool night air, her shoulders moonlight pale and smooth as stone, the offer of my jacket too late to avoid the oncoming shrug. Tim Hawkins sometimes eats his beans with the patience of a saint.
Read MoreTemidayo Jacob Depression In my dictionary, depression as a verb means, to put on your Christmas dress and feel like you’re dressed for war. Temidayo Jacob, a widely published Sociologist-Poet in Nigeria and the author of Beauty Of Ashes, can be found on Twitter @BoyUntouched.
Read MoreJohn Hawkhead Is it possible to remember a shadow that was never cast, to celebrate the life of a never born child who did not stand here in the full gaze of sunlight but still leaves a shadow that falls from the past in the drifting darkness of yesterday’s ash? John Hawkhead is a writer […]
Read MoreHowie Good Famous on Facebook So many brilliant friends (1,306) all shouting at the same time, some confessing, others arguing or bragging or retelling jokes, until I think I should, maybe, just give up trying to be heard above the rumble-bumble and go back to what I once knew best, a quiet that was old […]
Read MoreLenore Balliro Faith In my dark yard, garlic bulbs rest below surface— their winter beds resembling small graves, and I know they are content to sleep until March, under mounds of dried leaves, until my practiced hands push their bedding back and call them to meet the scant sun. Lenore Balliro lives in Gloucester, Massachusetts […]
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