Stories
Poetry
Sometimes, when I’m silent, I can hear our old neighbor’s Ford.
Poem of the Week
Across sage flats, tundra, and bleeding hearts, she escapes.
Poem of the Week
Blame the juncos outside. Sopranos in one tree, altos in another.
Poetry
I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
Because I can love every small thing.
Poem of the Week
Make It Big, all return and rhythm, a groove that plays to the center.
Poem of the Week
Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.
Poem of the Week
I live for now in the second house of having asked a favor from a friend.
Poetry
Oh they pay me well. I make a small fortune. Yes they pay me well.
Poetry
América, make me wings large enough to carry me back and forth.
Poetry
No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.
Poem of the Week
The gravest season and least understood is more than pale heads
Poem of the Week
I feel unnatural, half a human face smothered in deep light.
Poetry
Yes, Sweetness, a white shadow shimmers on the X-ray of the future.
Poem of the Week
I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.
Poetry
You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.
Poetry
I was lying with electricity. I was already a story being told.
Poem of the Week
won’t you celebrate with me that every day has tried to kill me
Poetry
I hike, I bike, I tap at this keyboard.
I survive—and I’m still an old man.
Poem of the Week
This was still the sixties, and a girl in shop was way beyond him.
Poem of the Week
The world smells brand-new crisp the way an ax cuts fire wood.
Poem of the Week
Without a working title, a poem could muddle meaning, confuse purpose.
Poetry
A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.
Poem of the Week
You’re supposed to hit is the bull’s-eye, that black spot, precise spot.
Poem of the Week
At Pompeii the little dog lay curled and did not rise but slept the deeper.
Poetry
No more laughing like the waves. No more ocean of words to drink from.
Poem of the Week
You ask, Could we have coffee? No, my truth, I’m still on this side.
