RAPIDS BY SUE BUDIN
Even in our sleep, the current
flows like the river the horse swims through,
afraid and courageous. His legs pump the water
to stay afloat, to bring him
to the other side.
Author: admin
STREETS BY SUE BUDIN
Traveling by subway, bus
to newer realms, I discovered
Wingohocking, a name that sounds
like bullets flying between gangs–
Wingo vs. Hocking.
Who would win the war?
I FLICKED A FLY ACROSS THE BALCONY BY MARKUS EGELER JONES
Anyway, it is a cold October morning; he was misplaced I tell myself. Never mind the fact that I crushed his neck or that he now lies on his broken back gurgling his last breath from collapsed lungs. He should have seen that...
Read MoreI RAN AWAY BY MARIANNE LYON
We watched afternoon riot of light change
to pink dusk, then night sky yawned open
a few eager stars danced out
FEBRUARY BASEBALL BY CHRISTY WISE
Pitchers and catchers reporting.
The hopefulness of spring as
I think ahead
to steamy summer afternoons
and lively games,
maybe even wins.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR A DREAM BY SALLY ZAKARIYA
Decide if you want this night this dream
know that if it wants to come it comes
you cannot turn it away cannot
say no
In the Museum of Good Deeds By Lois Marie Harrod
Saint Sebastian recycles his arrows, Saint
Francis divies his cloak, half to the beggar,
half to the bird, boys flit naked among
Losing Touch By Tom McElligot
It was late afternoon when I called to see John. He sat in the kitchen twiddling with a piece of burned toast, orange chipped marmalade dripping slowly from a yellow buttery meltdown onto his dishevelled trousers.
Read MoreON THE GREEN TUMULT WE SLEPT BY BENJAMIN RENNE
our limp attractions stung like uneven stitches
from ear to grinning ear
A LONG LOST FRIEND BY REBECCA GERMONPREZ
When Sylvia and the children reached the clinic yard, it took only a glance from her for them to drop down in the shade, at ease. Their clothing, all hand-me-down, was the norm. The land was tired and jobs were scarce, hardscrabble made harder by the Great Depression.
Read MoreA POIGNANT COMMUTE BY JOEY DALLA BETTA
A half mile down the road I noticed someone had cut the tall grass under a tree on the north side, where he may have spent the night
Read MoreMY PEN IS RUNNING OUT BY MARKUS EGELER JONES
my pen is empty of its gasoline.
it sputters along this page.
leaving scratched marks where words
should be, leaving dotted lines
where letters should be
