by Dorian Kotsiopoulos
If you trip over it on the way back to bed from the bathroom,
don’t plan on falling back to sleep. Continue reading
by Dorian Kotsiopoulos
If you trip over it on the way back to bed from the bathroom,
don’t plan on falling back to sleep. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by August Straumanis
This morning I was woken up by a marching band. The parade was in town—horns crashed through the treetops, majorettes passed out smiles like electrocutions to the crowd. A biker gang rode by with a caged tiger in tow, a small mirror lodged in its jaw. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Kalani Padilla
The cabbages will survive at 24 degrees fahrenheit
whether they tolerate or desire the frost
is their secret.
Filed under Poetry
by Amy Fleury
Into the circle of chairs at the coffee shop
or church basement the newly bereft,
bedraggled and numb, are hauled ashore
by those long ago wrecked, those who know
the ropes, handing out Styrofoam cups
to be bitten and clutched. The coffee
isn’t bad for such a sad, uncharted place.
Salt water inundates us, so we pass around
the tissue box like a conch shell. All loss
is ours, we who are stranded together,
each with our own stormy story to share.
What unlikely castaways we make—professor,
pipefitter, nurse, veteran, and even undertaker.
Filed under Poetry
by Megan Munger
Lynnie, all you learn
on our visits are Grandpa’s horses
like saltlicks, have soft manes.
Grandma’s office, a typewriter,
she lets you play. Both of them
smile and hug gentle,
Filed under Poetry