Sciurus Carolinesis – Max Garland It’s hopeless how she loves this life. The gray squirrel digs a small moon’s worth of craters in the yard. Some she fills, some leaves open. I’ve seen her work a walnut, still green, round and round, shaving the surface down to the meat. It moves in her claws like … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Max Garland
To a Young Father – Sydney Lea This riverbend must have always been lovely. Take the one-lane iron bridge shortcut across the town’s west end and look downstream to where the water backs up by the falls. Boys once fished there with butterball bait because the creamery churned by hydro and the trout were so … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Sydney Lea
Unlike most friends, this friend has been part of your life for as long as you can remember. He figures in your earliest memories, and there hasn’t ever been a stretch of longer than half a year when you haven’t been in his presence. He’s a tall man, a big man. He has a big … Continue reading Portrait of a Friend: Happy Father's Day
If Found, Drop In Any Mail Box. Owner Will Pay Postage – Jeanne Murray Walker I’m grading papers in the motel room, the teacher in me watching as my students fumble with their keys in the lock of the world. I crack down on the one who misspells the minuet amount of imagination a person … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Jeanne Murray Walker
Somewhere I’ll Find You – Phebe Hanson So we moved from my small town in western Minnesota to St. Paul where I had to go to Murray High, a school with more people than in the entire town of Sacred Heart, and I had to walk two and a half miles every day because there … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Phebe Hanson
My Mother Swimming – John Hodgen Chest-deep, my brothers and I, the waters of Comet Pond leaping at our little hearts as we held on for dear life, shrivel-fingered, blue, to the cement boat dock, as far as we dared go, the self-declared demarcation of our drowning, our father back on the blanket, lonely as … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by John Hodgen
Objects, Memory and Meaning
If it can't be said in a hundred words, then it can't be said in a thousand.
sewing a handmade wardrobe
drink from the well of your self and begin again. -Charles Bukowski
Your Source For The Good Things Black People Do, Give and Receive All Over The World
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Thoughts on the world around me
the literary asylum
Bipolar is my superpower
