Poetry

Maritza Rivera 7-01-2012

"There is nothing casual / about casualties of war."

D.S. Martin 6-01-2012

You can’t desire to catch the sacred fish / as much as he desires to be caught / & yet / he darts through the dim depths / with tail swerve & swish

"Denial / This has nothing to do with blackness. / This has everything to do with blackness."

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
                                                                —Wordsworth         

Belle Fox-Martin 3-01-2012

We are the lay of the land— / pocked, hilled, knowing every ember / and seed imprinted on our bones.

R.M. Blair 2-01-2012

While he was in jail, two policemen / came to his apartment, took / all his books, sat at his kitchen table / drinking his coffee, and cut out / the forbidden words: kitchen / was first to go;

Annie Deppe 1-01-2012

There were two sets of stairs: the front ones curving and formal while the backstairs rose steep as a canyon wall. As a girl, I used to fly from their heights when I wasn’t falling.

Barbara Crooker 12-01-2011

The amaryllis bulb, dumb as dirt, inert, how can anything spring from this clod, this stone, the pit of some subtropical, atypical, likely inedible fruit?

Ken Sehested 11-01-2011

We all knew it would come.
Someday. Always later.
Mañana.
It comes for us all. Sure.
Of course.
We know that. Someday.
Mañana.

But when someday draws near
for someone you love
whose silenced breath sears
your lungs with flames of grief
and sobs so immense
you wonder:
How dare the sun ascend?
The stars to shine?
Even the yeast to rise!

Richard Schiffman 9-01-2011

Eschewing perfection, they knotted in a flaw,
the human signature and kink that made
the carpet whole -- not less perfect, but more
for the fraying edge, the bleeding dyes
that cloak their treasure in disguise,
an act of indirection modeled from on high:
as when the Deity said Be ...
and out crawled -- the twisted,
the crippled, the deformed.

(for Daniel Berrigan on his ninetieth birthday)

Scott Kinder-Pyle 7-01-2011

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,

Sarah Browning 6-03-2011

In our city we see them sometimes.

Sneha Abraham 4-01-2011

Touched your hem / A thousand times / A face just / Beyond my sight / Space between / Grace, grief

Joseph Ross 3-01-2011

This time they are the ones cauth, though they try to close their eyes.

Noel Julnes-Dehner 2-01-2011

My husband, he die
without water in desert.
Walking Saudi Arabia --
no jobs in Yemen
for policemen
from Somalia.

Rob Soley 1-01-2011

My strokes are halting, not like the imagined fluidity
of the monastic scribes, hunched, by candlelight,
over some ancient text, perhaps the Our Father,

Temple Cone 12-01-2010

Bach wrote his solo cello suites as études, not for performance./
Imagine, the arpeggios of the first prelude, forever private, /

His friend Martha's making soup, because you still /
have to eat. Meanwhile, back in the Garden /

Jesse Nathan 9-01-2010

No, nothing,

she says, that is not God’s, and we approach
a crow ripping the entrails

of a truck-crushed fox, and the crow flees

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