Poetry
Poetry
Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.
Poem of the Week
I have heard stories of the river, how people were willing to die to cross it.
Poem of the Week
For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.
Poem of the Week
No fountains to quench the thirst between rounds of tag.
Poetry
I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.
Poem of the Week
I bring out the emergency in people and I don’t know why.
Poem of the Week
His weary glance has grown into a dazed and vacant stare.
Poem of the Week
It swims for a while, but abandons itself, slips from its own grasp.
Poem of the Week
At night everything feels. Even a river feels its way through the woods.
Poem of the Week
On her sixty-second birthday Marge Olson got a call, not a gift.
Poetry
Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.
Poem of the Week
Are these poems just cumbersome or a critique of cumbersomeness?
Poem of the Week
The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.
Poem of the Week
Every dawn you’d toss the feed, your hands faithful to the good work of rising.
Poetry Contest Winners
Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.
Poetry
She could not remember what Past and Present stood for.
Poetry
Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.
Poem of the Week
The moment in your drunk when you become rich! A connoisseur.
Poetry
This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.
Poem of the Week
He said, You have no brother. I didn’t know what he meant. I do now.
Poem of the Week
Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.
Poem of the Week
We talked. She was the same inside as I am, from the same kind.
Poetry
Love cannot override what cells do in the nighttime of our bodies.
Poetry
I hold on to the shape of a star the way my aunts hold on to Jesus’s gown.
Poem of the Week
Sing so dogs bark, oxen bolt. Sing so a girl walks out on her lover.
Poem of the Week
How smooth their bones, like alabaster shaved from moonlight.
Poem of the Week
The past, you hear it, the small hours, sucked down the undertow.
Poem of the Week
Old wives, I wish I could be one of you. Instead I am the born old maid.
