Poetry

by Tim Nolan.
“When he almost died that night— / under the glaring hospital lights— / she stood off in the corner—she was / herself—she would have been fine / if he died that night…”

by Floyd Skloot.
“summer lose its grip. Nothing more /
than a waning of the scents that dwelt /
all season near the hilltop…”

by Emily Sullivan Sanford.
“Every spring I must explain my arms to children, / before my legs arrive in summer.”

by Brett Warren.
“All around me, trees and shrubs infringe / on gravestones, while lichens write their stories / over names and dates. Under the ground, / where once I imagined only the remains…”

by Subhaga Crystal Bacon.
“What can I tell you of this cool morning, / mid-August, the sky clear, sun on the bare / pine floor, a book of poems, dog asleep, / the house quiet…”

by James Gonda.
“In the shed behind the house where /
garden tools lean in a corner there /
was a spider, black and still, as large /
as a thumbprint tucked behind a spade…”

by June Rowe.
“Named Inky by his captors, with appealing / comparisons to human traits, feedings / timed to please the children’s flattened / faces squished against the glass….”

by Catherine G. Wolf.
“Some of us limped, and some drove motorized wheelchairs / in the graveyard, and those who had still had voices sang…”

by Erica Funkhouser.
“Sadness calls for inadequate outerwear. / Exhilaration for ultra violet. / All feelings are unhealthy.”