Poetry

Rose Marie Berger 07-01-2007

The narcotraficante commanded me
in gestures, take off your blouse.
Then he jerked it, scattering buttons—
smooth and pink—along the ground.

<
Murray Bodo 06-01-2007
As if it matters
    noticing the migrant workers—
    two to a wheelbarrow of concrete—
    mending the walls of the rich
    that exclude them
As if religion
Clifford Rivera 04-01-2007

"The wind blows wherever it pleases." Word?
The scene is played out. We need some Eden!
Were Abba the DJ, He'd spin hymns
To slay.

This afternoon, sir
we nailed God down
He's at the back of the property

He's going nowhere, sir
His feet are stuck
to a block of wood

It's comical, sir

Deb Baker 02-01-2007

I went there once,
to the place you’re imagining.
It was purple, with wild geraniums
under green-bright stars.

All the constellations spelled
words, like &

Michael Borich 01-01-2007

After the olive groves at Samothrace and fog
which billowed up from a green sea,
the rocky sheep path and bleating ewes,
wind and sun—there w

Kathleen Gunton 12-01-2006

She left
with her sack of stones
and one dying rose,
fragrant as Pinot Noir.

Christi Kramer 08-01-2006
At the feet of the mothers.
Amanda Rogers 07-01-2006

Your letter through the slot
slid to the floor and lay quite still
all day, until returning home from work
I seized and tore it open.

Newton Miner 06-01-2006

If ever you have wakened in the night—
the steep blue night, and waited for the tears—
then I must tell you—

Katie Chilton 05-01-2006

Driving east on Jackson Street one morning,
only a couple of blocks from the bungalow on Abe Street
where a few years ago hundreds of people claimed

Wanda Fries 04-01-2006

The poor are with you always—

Michael Borich 03-01-2006

Was the cry they heard a kestrel’s or a distressed gull
or a passing soul or one not wanting to, a disciple
asked as fog burned off the harbor and left the water

glazed with fire: Jesus roused from dozing lightly. Sun
turned the shore rocks ocher. A bee thrummed near;
they watched it hover. John, who squatted to mend a net,

Luci Shaw 01-01-2006

“Two weeks on, the Earth is still vibrating from the massive undersea earthquake off Indonesia Sunday…reverberations like the ringing of a bell….” —AOL News

Murray Bodo 01-01-2006

beneath debris and stench
a hand

your hand withered
stretched forth

waiting for someone’s
be healed

Debra Rienstra 12-01-2005
The Child Jesus Speaks

my mother bleeds for me in a barn
she gives birth in a tree as the flood waters rise
she is a refugee

my mother bends and gathers
she pounds and sweats to quiet many hungers
she is a worker

my mother calls for mercy
she forms pieces of sky into shapes that heal
she is a maker

Debra Elramey 09-01-2005

Drive north down Highway 301, past
the school where, weekdays, deaf children
run wild on the playground. Keep going until
you see the sign, "Snake Man," then turn left
into Camper's Lodge and swing on around
past the turquoise pool in front of the
Laundromat and park your car. Get out and
go inside-any wayfaring stranger is welcome
here of a Sunday morning, rain or shine.
Take a seat in one of the six pews painted
white as the washers and dryers lined up in

In this month of dehydration,
we keep our eyes skyward, both to watch
for rain and to avoid the scorn
of the scorched succulents who reproach
us silently, saying, "You promised to care."

And so, although we thought we could stick
these seedlings in the ground and leave
them to their own devices, we haul
hoses and buckets of water to the outer edges
of the yard where the hose will not reach.

Louis Templeman 07-01-2005

Against the ugly annals of
Bible-thumper politics bounce the echoes
of Bad-Eye Thomas' lonesome cry.
His tears collect against the
coffers engineered by Robertson's broadcasts;
the retention walls defined by Falwell's broadsides.
Such rhetoric trickled down from
palatial headquarters (funded from small contributions)
to the votes of the faithful tithers.
Mrs. Thomas, Christopher's mother,
having deposited her social security check,
found his money coupon, kept neatly between
her phone bill and her monthly offering

Barbara Crooker 06-01-2005
It'

It’s a sweet June day, and the mockingbirds
are singing, as are the rubber tires of cars
on the road, and both of these sounds reverberate,
echo, the jazz of early summer, with the muffled
percussion of wind in the trees. A crow
twangs and plucks his big black bass,

Pages

Subscribe