My Temple
Dario Jimenez Poetry Photo Credit: chemisti As I am used to do every morning very very early, walk to the pier, usually empty of fishing rods and sea salt fantasies, sit down on the same star light...
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Greg Moglia Poetry Photo Credit: Calsidyrose Second grader Jarrett is writing The required Valentine’s Day cards to each of his classmates When his mother Liz says Ashley is next on the list Jarrett...
View ArticleShinjini’s Hazaar Songs
Sanchari Sur Poetry Photo Credit: M Yashna For sale: my paan stained lips crimson the colour of failed revolution. Shinjini, my name the rhapsody of anklets. You shorten it to ‘Shin’. shin [shin] noun...
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Shari Winslow Poetry Photo Credit: Maureen Sill My Grandmother’s Bed At nine, in a cabin by the lake at our family reunion, I sleep beside my grandmother. I can either sleep there or on the floor, or...
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Holly Day Poetry I’m washing my daughter’s hair and she tells me there’s a boy She likes in school, he’s nine years old, he says he doesn’t like her He told her best friend he doesn’t like her, she’s...
View ArticleIn Settling Up Property
John Grey Poetry Half a Dylan box set— I take the early years, you get the breakup stuff and the religion. Two televisions so that split is easy. The 40-inch, stuck for life on American Idol, is yours....
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Anne Britting Oleson Poetry Not even a chance meeting, just your name, printed on a card on a mailbox in the quiet hall outside the waiting room. Sitting here, watching traffic through half-open...
View ArticleSarajevo, Celal
Poetry Carl Boon Two decades past the War, the snow still falls. Old men in old cafés trace fragments of the past. You are in a room far from the warehouse where the bobsleds rust and rot. Where you...
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Poetry Wayne F. Burke the notebook slips from my hands and runs across the table and I chase it down and chain it to my palm but it breaks the lock and lands in my lap and I pick it … Continue reading →
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Poetry Natasha S. Garnett Memory: La Paz 1983 What do I remember Of that ride It was long, it was short The sky was gray, the day was fine Only that it was terrible A lurching uphill climb Of the …...
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Poetry Lowell Jaeger Crud-Muckers Sturdy boys in overalls who’d risen early to help with milking and mucking the barn… their sisters who’d lit the stove before sunup, baked biscuits and fried ham for...
View ArticleFerguson
Poetry Erren Geraud Kelly “a riot is the voice of the unheard” —rev. dr. martin luther king, jr. mingus’ upright bass rumbling anarchy like a volcano miles’ trumpet launching rockets at the status quo...
View ArticleLately I Have Been Reading Arthur Clarke
Poetry Kristina Spear You have nine billion names for God written on each freckle etched on each blemish of my skin. A billion stars Arthur Clarke would blot out. Last night, again the lines for a...
View ArticleReynaldo
Poetry Jan Ball I glimpse only the lower half of the painting with the foreshortened arms of Reynaldo, the fishmonger, cutting raw pink fish on a restaurant kitchen counter, from where I sit at our...
View ArticleWanted: One cliché to replace the old woman currently feeding the pigeons in...
Poetry Sean Lause She feeds pigeons, only pigeons. If a sparrow alights on her big cigar, she blows smoke in its face and flicks it away. And her laughter stings the air like bees. She snarls...
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Poetry JoAnn LoSavio Because They Say Women Who Cheat Are Sluts A hook-up. Casual sex. A novel madness between my legs, An exotic caress to confess. I won’t lie; there was no innocence. Dangerously, I...
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Poetry Jonathan Shipley Those Flowers You wandered the art museum aglow. Under certain light you are happy. O’Keeffe always painted herself in those flowers. The curve of a woman has quiet beautiful...
View ArticleSisters
Poetry Angela Inez Vargas Her long black hair sticking down to the waist. We could be sisters. She looks the strong, silent stock and hard up for self-service, just like I was once. Her teeth look as...
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Poetry Diane Webster Untied Knots Like tweezers her fingernails pinch each knot and loosen its grip from the lengthening strand patiently hearing her mother teach not to waste any string because it...
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Poetry Marne Grinolds Wilson That look from you, that tone of voice, and suddenly I am not an adult woman arguing a point with a colleague. I am 8 years old again, working with my daddy, and being told...
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