Hundreds of years growing on a steep hill, desolate, aging / despite scarce nourishment, they wait for history to recognize them.
Poetry
Joseph Ross 7-01-2003
Indigo true
purest blue,
a man on a cliff
waits with open hands
and closed eyes
to receive
a breath.
Kelly Sterns 7-01-2002
The summer God was nine years old
Heaven's swamp cooler broke for good.
His Mama was stout yet managed to scale
the side of their trailer, parked off a path
near the woods over by Gabriel's.
She jerry-rigged its fan to flutter
with the backing off her green and purple earring.
God was building insects that day
under the shade of the grapevines by the tree.
He pinched that colorful tool,
ran off for the quiet of his overhanging vines.
Easing the earring out of his overalls
he mimicked his Mama an historic way that day.
Rose Marie Berger 5-01-2002
I once met a woman who—
in a frenzy of wild praise
and to fight the devil—ate glass.
Scott Cairns 5-01-2001
Your petitions—though they continue to bear
just the one signature—have been duly recorded.
Rod Jellema 11-01-2000
Poetry is like prayer in that it is most effective in
solitude and in the times of
solitude as, for
example, in the earliest morning. —Wallace Stevens