Poetry

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…”

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…”