I fear the tangle of my hair clip,
an accident from my Volvo wagon,
monkeys stealing from my purse,
oyster crackers drying my saliva,
mice living in the woodpile,
and most of all,
the shovel that will be used
to cover my pine casket.
Jennifer Minotti chugs kombucha and devours raw peas when she is not curating the Journal of Expressive Writing.
The Poet’s Life as a Dog
Collared with words, I trot
nose to the tracks of others
whose auras, promising more
than shuttered faces can tell,
taunt like maddening rabbits
forever evading my reach.
Darrell Petska is a retired university engineering editor from Madison, Wisconsin, and that’s all he has to say about that.
A History Plays Out
You dream, tossing
above the ruins beneath
your bed, subconsciously concocting
some other cosmic complaint as
Eric Mohrman may or may not accomplish anything worth mentioning in a bio.
What Language Does Your Muse Speak?
When I came to America
as a boy I had to cross
fallow land between
words and stories without
abandoning their memories,
now I can no longer tell
which ones were born to
the mother tongue.
George Salamon has sat between the chairs of German and English since he was 14.
Small as boats go
and don’t go, face-
down on the ground,
chained to a tree, now
it floats in place upon
the earth along with
everything else on earth.
Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. J.R. Solonche is the author of 24 books of poetry.
Each Morning that May,
I sipped coffee on the cabin’s
screened porch and observed
a screech owl roosting calmly
in a worn cranny of an ancient oak
until one dawn she wasn’t there,
and in her absence, I knew
I had to leave my husband.
Sara Pirkle can often be found in her favorite coffeeshop in Tuscaloosa, playing board games with other University of Alabama professors. http://sarapirkle.com
Art for Art’s Sake
When Henri Matisse was an old man,
too feeble to handle a paintbrush any
longer or even get himself out of bed,
he rubbed some charcoal on the end
of a pointer stick and drew on the ceiling –
it had just seemed so chillingly empty.
Howie Good likes to stay up late.
The Night My Father Died
the moon of his face shone dirty yellow
but pretty, as it paled into a gray sky.
Erica Kent lives in Portland, Maine with her family and chunky bulldog.