Poetry

COULD A LOVER LOVE MY MUSEby Jan Little Could a Lover Love My Muse? My muse mocks my left-brained worldWith its trudging logical  meetingDaily objectives on chalkboards.At moments between classes, she sneaks out,Makes humorous analogies I...

MISSING MESSAGESby David Ryan Palmer The White Letters Dearest son,I hope this letter finds you well. I have not seen your address since the accident, but my friends here have interesting ways of knowing things.  I was not sure I...

WHEN CUTTING FISHBy John Grey  WHEN CUTTING FISHConcentrate on your fingernot the creature's eye.Given half the chance,the blade will slip,the dead will stare right at you.Don't spill blood.Don't feel guilt.Here on earth,you need to knowwhen...

THE VOICE by Bethany Bruno The Voice I’ve always loved the complexity of fall.Only one season makes me feel alive, one that allows my roots to entangleInto Earth’s soil.Winter, spring, and summer seasons drag on like an...

    SACRIFICEBy Georgia Eugenides    THE SUMMER I NEVER HADin the morningi search for myself everywhere,under ivory sheets that smell of cinnamon, between porcelain jarson the highest kitchen shelf and among blue, crossed outpoems in my notebooki...

I Never Learned to Shuffle Cards cling together, but break in colliding waterfalls of cardboard not ending in order but creating chaos of red and black. The game returns order, Patterns picked and piled, but once complete are returned back to the sea to find...

THE STORY OF LIFEby Linda Casebeer  The story of life We could feel the evening falling around usthough it was noon when clouds covered the sunabove the chapel lit only by natural lightfiltering through the windowsand...

FROM HERE TO THEREBy Roger Singer   FROM HERE TO THEREHe wore a loud tie.  Checkeredshirt and black high top sneakers.Thoughts tumbled from him like leaves;fast tracks combined with solid sounds.He mumbles a prayer, though not...

TOP OF THE CYCLONEby Lenny Lewis                                                    TOP OF THE CYCLONE                                              Fourteen years in the system                                             is no fun. Said Good-bye to Comstock                                             didn't look back. Rode the bus                                             to Port Authority. Walked the Deuce                                            ...

reality 2.1 wrapped in shrouds of selfwe’re everywhereinescapable impenetrableglued to worlds we seebut cannot touchremaking realityto be what we want it to be pedalling furiouslyto keep uppush ahead break throughtime and space to a differentbetter (we think) placethan...