By Remica Bingham-Risher
But for the grace of Godone might begin andthis must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the...
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- By Sri ChinmoyUltimately everything Becomes boring.Even great miracles Become boring.Even the tremendous powers of...
- By Ada LimónMy brother holds a snake by its head. The whole length of the snake is the length of my brother’s body...
- By Ada LimónI pass the feeder and yell, Grackle party! And then an hour later I yell, Mourning dove afterparty! (I call the feeder the...
- By R. L. SwihartThe young man says, “Alan can do anything he wants”“Not fly,” I sayThe young man returns a puzzled look...
- By Cornelius EadyI’m here to tell you an old story. ThisAppears to be my work. I live in the world,Walk the streets of...
- By Toi DerricotteWhen relatives came from out of town,we would drive down to Blackbottom,drive slowly down the congested...
- By JP HowardIf I should ever forget you, this is my love note to you You were loved You were somebody’s lover You...
- By CAConrad
Frank knows a
butterfly
who wonders
about her old
caterpillar
friends - By CAConrad
“don’t tell me it was
the wind!” Frank shouts
“THAT TREE
WAVED
AT ME!” - By CAConrad“I’m here for the show” the man said looking under Frank's shirt for the door “I’m no theater” Frank...
- By CAConradFrank is a young boy asleep in ancient Tibet what you thought was your life is really his dream he may...
- By Isabela AgosaThe diagnosis: Briar Rose mapped every corridor in hunt of her hurt, as if pulled by a thread. Curses...
- By John MurilloFor me, the movie starts with a black man Leaping into an orbit of badges, tiny moons Catching the sheen...
- By David RoderickI wear a flower in my lapel. I like the sweetness of its lie in my nose. A carnation, the fool’s flower...
- By Toi DerricotteTo be born woman is to know— Although they do not speak of it at school- Women must labor to be beautiful. -...
- By Georg TraklFull of harmonies is the flight of birds. The green woods Have closed about the stiller huts at evening...
- By Georg TraklAt evening they bore the stranger into the death parlor; a scent of tar; the faint rustling of red sycamores...
- By Lynn EmanuelLove is boring and passé, all that old baggage, the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic, retrograde...
- By Patricia SmithDear ferocious dreamer. Dear maven of song and surveyor of every flung star. Dear meandering romantic...