Poetry

Poetry

Waiting for a cure, waiting for the closeout sale, the black sail.

Poem of the Week

When she sleeps, Shakespeare writes one more sonnet we’ll never read.

Poem of the Week

Many times I’ve stood at the lip of this river and wanted to crawl in.

Poem of the Week

For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.

Poetry

I let the baby mouse live because I cannot kill what has ears.

Hedin258.jpg
iPoems

In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.

Poem of the Week

The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.

Poem of the Week

You are afraid pain itself might develop a way to communicate.

Poem of the Week

We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.

Poetry

For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.

Poem of the Week

In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.

Poem of the Week

One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.

Poetry

I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.

Poetry

It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.

Poem of the Week

she was sixteen, and swimming. she was seventy-one, and soft.

Poetry Contest Winners

The highway hot with possibility, a new herd expected every five miles.

Poetry

I tell him: junkies are the only people worth talking to about love.

iPoems

Bone unspools its musculature to the crush of atmosphere.

Bell.600dpi2.jpg
Poem of the Week

We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing.

N30B Winners

do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us

Poem of the Week

When push comes to shove, I can get downright Aeolian on you, son.

iPoems

The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.

WanekC.jpg
Poem of the Week

Tears sometimes come in a bottle. Open and apply several times daily.

Poem of the Week

The five notes, slowly, over & over, and with some light intent.

Poem of the Week

We walk in light so steep I can see each single stitch of your sweater.

Poem of the Week

I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.

Poetry

He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.

Poetry

This must be what it’s like to be seen by God as we inch toward the infinite.

Poetry Contest Winners

When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces. It’s better if we never touch.

Poem of the Week

Our bed a garden of the littlest sighs of our waking. Our room, abstract.