Stories

Poetry Contest Winners

I slipped one sparrow black and shivering into my mouth.

Poetry

The pupils are toothpicks. The lake is a sky with a circle beneath.

Poetry

He loves me. That’s half enough: he’s the only man around.

Poetry

If every present is possible, how can we have eyes to see?

Poetry Contest Winners

i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.

Poetry Contest Winners

Exhausted, androgynous, delirious, I delight in my many parts.

Poetry

In hushed awe they talk of things to come, a golden time of flowering.

N30B Winners

I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).

N30B Winners

Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.

Poetry

Even as a child, I was skeptical—testing God when He wasn’t looking.

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Poetry

I'll pick a black card of luck for you: star, pinkmoon, mirror, ostrich eye.

Poetry

I told you how I’ve always been attracted to little violences.

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Poetry

Before there was air, sublime silence. There was no one not to hear it.

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Poetry

I’m going to save up against the flood and stagger to carry nothing.

Poem of the Week

If I bring the wrong pen the words look like snow piles on an empty page.

Poetry

I let you pull my hair, throw me to the rocks, disarrange me.

Poem of the Week

Absence rarely makes the heart grow fonder, or so my mother said.

Poem of the Week

Lunatics call it annihilation . . . Think of it as not doing a thing

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Poem of the Week

Suddenly two would dart and clasp one another belly to belly.

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Poetry

Robert Hedin

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Poetry

A child no bigger than small change calls from her window j’ai faim.

Poetry

I’ve taken the pledge and made donations of blood to the world.

Poetry

My brush an M-16, thirty-round clips for tubes of paint, all of them red.

Poetry

Let’s rummage through each other’s bodies like a blowout sale.

Poetry

Even the busiest of businessmen are out for the count, paying the price.

Poetry

Michael McGriff

Poetry

They plant whispers where shouts incinerate into hisses.

Poetry

Two bikers, the bartender, me, and a skinny girl in skintight blue jeans.

Poetry

Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?

Poetry

Marianne Boruch