The Story
After he read the storyHe put the paper downBrought the mug to his lipsTook a sip of the hot Sumatra coffeeHis nostrils flaredHis fist clenchedHe read it againAll conjectureHe thoughtThe facts turned aroundThe story upside downIt assumed his intentionWritten as if the...
Lost
He came and she left.For a minute he thoughtShe was in the bathroom.But then glancing around,Nothing of her remainedHe had finishedclosed his eyes andthought for just a moment.Looking back hemay have fallen asleep.Surely there must be a note.Something.A more thorough...
The Clasp
If we were to clasp ourHands togetherThey would form a unionSometimes when I Hate youI reach for your handYour warm palmPressing against mineMy raging mindSoftensMy heart feelsYour beatI feign a smileMy heart conspiresWith youA few more stepsThe air dancingAboutWhat...
The Inevitable
Mushroom smoke rose upFrom the distanceA miracleLike some wizard cast A spellAnd then the waveDo I hide?Do I get behind something?Surely I am too far?The smoke ripples throughThe town shifting to rubbleI am hypnotizedFrozenSoon the wave is comingThe trees bendingThe...
The Response
The message was sent.I had spent most of the morningcrafting it.Now, I waited.For a response,I kept re-reading.Was my intention clear,my punctuation on par;would they understand?Time spilled outlike a desert,large swaths of time.I put down the phone and picked it...
…like yesterday
This morning,of all the mornings,the moon woke me. I followed the lightof last night,and walked out to freshly plowed seedless mounds. Shadows castlike head stonesrowafterrow. And I,on this night,of all the nights,took a seed from my pocketand dropped it- in your...
God or the Mundane
no one pauses
to fold their
quiet time
into mine.
Night Sounds
I walk out to the weekends’night sounds. Mostly stale stillnessbroken only by one roused rooster and a pond-full of mid-summers’ peepers. A car, then two pass by where I’ve been walking out through a season, then a few broken only by a boy, then two as a...
To Call a Spade
We’re paralyzed by social numbing
as they fight off hunger
yet keep on running.
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Butter Knife by Hollie Mcnish
“When I began to listen to poetry, it’s when I began to listen to the stones, and I began to listen to what the clouds had to say, and I began to listen to others. And I think, most importantly for all of us, then you begin to learn to listen to the soul, the soul of yourself in here, which is also the soul of everyone else.”
Joy Harjo
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