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The Poetry of Adrienne Burris
“I want to tell both wolves that one year ago,/my brother died in the middle of the night./Died suddenly and alone, so this freefall, over/the edge with breath-catching, body strapped/floating over steel beams,…
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Doug Van Gundy’s Poetry
“The man at the table across from mine/is eating a painting with a knife and fork./It looks to be a lesser Pollock, or perhaps/a Clyfford Still, regardless, abstract/expressionism, surprisingly modern/for a restaurant…
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The Poetry of Jeff Hardin
“Almost as suddenly, I thought of all the important lines by others that have stayed with me through the years: ‘You must change your life’ (Rilke), ‘How soon unaccountable I became’ (Whitman), ‘practice…
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The Poetry of Karen Donovan
“When the weather turns left I’ll turn into it,/reaching for washouts with my inherited pedipalps,/wagering grapeshot precision I can get home/before lightning thumbtacks me to the palisades./My middle game has never been that…
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The Poetry of Doug Van Gundy
“The man at the table across from mine/is eating a painting with a knife and fork./It looks to be a lesser Pollock, or perhaps/a Clyfford Still, regardless, abstract/expressionism, surprisingly modern/for a restaurant with…
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The Poetry of David Dodd Lee
“When fog hangs this thick there is the pinkest/odor of trouble One chair at the table’s made/of painted wood and sits empty Before we settled/this country before…
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The Poetry of R. Flowers Rivera
“All my life, in any place,/ for no reason, my grandfather’s 280 acres call out my name. Free and clear./Sister Gary, Gay, Gaynette. But all those stale breaths have gone somewhere/else. Cool dirt,…
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The Poetry of Susan Tekulve
“These days, though, I leave the lavender alone./I prefer brushing their velvety leaves accidentally, releasing/ their soapy scent, summoning the bees/whose hind claws are so compacted with pollen/they appear to wear tiny…
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The Poetry of Alexandra Thurman
“The world wants to tell you what it means./Words everywhere Messages: in the thin lines/of tide, in the waves’ foamed cursive left behind/on the flat, unrolled paper of sand./Bird skips, blank space, hieroglyphs,/wind…
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The Poetry of Gary Jackson
“He raises one arm and you can’t tell if he’s pointing or offering his hand. Your clothes catch fire—you imagine both of you walking away from this alive. The burning man cocks his…