Jennifer Minotti

My Fears

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.



Darrell Petska

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.



Eric Mohrman

A History Plays Out

You dream, tossing
above the ruins beneath
your bed, subconsciously concocting

some other cosmic complaint as

stars flutter

Eric Mohrman may or may not accomplish anything worth mentioning in a bio.



George Salamon

What Language Does Your Muse Speak?

When I came to America
as a boy I had to cross
fallow land between
languages, transforming
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.



J.R. Solonche

Beached Boat

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.



Sara Pirkle

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.



Howie Good

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.