Poetry

by Floyd Skloot.
“So far this morning has been cool and gray but as she walks backward into the sea, adjusting her snorkel and mask, sunlight appears over Haleakala’s cone…”

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

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

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

by Tim Suermondt.
“I lie back a little dreamlike, / let Mary Immaculate take the blood she needs. / The sun has found its way inside, / enveloping all of us in its light—”

by Joan I. Siegel.
“He does not wait for the sun’s return.
Instead he makes a pillow of darkness
to stretch inside this longest night…”

by Paula Bohince.
“My sister drove, / so long that what began before daybreak / ended in the same pitch, / and we barely noticed those in-between hours, // though this morning we laughed…”