Poetry
Poetry
Premonitions return to me like a carrier pigeon, disaster strapped to its leg.
Poem of the Week
My door overlooks a jade stream, the stillness of dawn drives cares away.
Poem of the Week
Everything comes down to the lightning. Nothing is ever by chance.
Poem of the Week
It’s like listening to the snow falling before sticking out your tongue.
Poetry
There is the ghost of a child in me. It longs to die, so afraid of living.
Poem of the Week
forget how to count starting with your own age starting with even numbers
Poetry
I was a skinhead in look and seem, a balding guy trying out the future.
Poem of the Week
You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap
Poem of the Week
we have in our heads the next place the place like the first place
Poem of the Week
The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.
Poetry Contest Winners
I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.
Poetry
No one seems to long for what it was before memory gained purchase.
Poem of the Week
Buckled by time and tides, the pier fails halfway to the deeps.
Poem of the Week
Who will call out as I descend, the world blurring by in sleep and despair?
Poem of the Week
By Wednesday morning I’d fallen in love with someone else.
Poem of the Week
My husband collects bruises, counts how many rise above the skin.
Poem of the Week
The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.
Poem of the Week
My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip.
iPoems
“Feathered Cup” by Shangyang Fang. A complete poem in a single screen.
Poem of the Week
The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.
Poem of the Week
My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.
Poem of the Week
What I eat, that heap has eaten. What I like, it gets, but less of.
Poem of the Week
Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.
Poem of the Week
you crawl into a hole & pull the hole in after you
on judgment day even our mothers will flee from us.
Poem of the Week
There, in the courtyard, a man might sit and call himself your friend.
Poetry
I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.
