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 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…”

by Jayne Marek.
“Old cat, my little love, as you withdraw / along with the declining days in October / and fold yourself into slanting light, / you seem quiet and neat as rolled-up socks.”