Poetry
Poetry
All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.
Poem of the Week
But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.
Poem of the Week
I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.
Poetry
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
Poem of the Week
Here: geeky cyber-warriors crunch cheese Cheetos over keyboards.
Poetry
I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
I keep hearing water sprites chattering, breathing.
Poetry
The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.
Poem of the Week
My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.
Poem of the Week
Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.
Poetry
They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.
Poetry
Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.
Poem of the Week
I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.
Poem of the Week
Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.
Poem of the Week
Let father be a man walking to the river, ready to bargain with water.
Poem of the Week
Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.
Poetry
I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.
Poem of the Week
I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.
Poem of the Week
The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning
Poem of the Week
It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.
Poem of the Week
A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.
N30B Winners
How do you beat a man who refuses to rise from a puddle of his own blood.
Poem of the Week
Let me remember there’s a door inside each flower.
Poem of the Week
Everyone has something lodged and jittering inside them.
Poem of the Week
Exit the building. Say nothing to anyone. They did. And they didn’t.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
I come home in the evenings to Mother scraping my scalp for God.
