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This soul is not a drip-dry thing. It’s needs constant washing and wringing to function cleanly. It needs to tumble on high heat to wear just right. Hand wash it and it will shrink in protest. Line dry it and you might think it will smell of heaven but it is the rancid smell of…
I am not a sailor. I am meant to die on land, ahes spread above sea level, or in a coddled urn above the hearth. My voice is paper and where I choose to exist, a white world that is not sky— this voice of mine. I have no ensign. My heart beats soft, beautiful…
It’s in the shading. It’s the way the light is written. It’s the way the observer takes it all in. It’s the way it convinces one that the world will last. It’s the way it plants a seed in the mind, the way it touches one inside, lives inside the streets of memory, inhabits…
Poetry can kill you when you shut yourself inside of it. It doesn’t want you looking for better words in other poems. It wants to cage you to the corners of a sheet of paper. It doesn’t want you to breathe the thing it won’t allow. It wants you to use…
Silhouette of a man giving a helping hand to another man who fell to the ground. The concept of a helping hand The seed planted with our small help becomes a crop. The flame carefully kindled by us ignites civilization. Now we must weed our blighted hearts to feed the moral…
Man has a map of the galaxy for his body, a map of his genes that are his universe. He has a defense or attack for every chess move housed in Watson’s memory. But precious of all, he has the ability to grow crops, to put water in the hands of the thirsty, to make…
There once was a race of cake men equally divided between birthday and wedding types, each born into whatever flavor was selling that day— usually chocolate or vanilla, but towards the end Neapolitan- whose faith was strong. They succumbed to the next door country of cake eaters, who reveled in their two week long…
What will happen when we stop writing poems? What will poetry become when we stop inspiring and the beauty of words is silenced or rejected? We will leave the writing table and descend into the valley to find new sounds and laughter. We will drink the last water from thirsty mountains. …
When the giant bagel fell from the sky everyone complained when it blocked the road. Even when children cut it into pieces and passed it out, lathered with shmear and lox the town folks refused to eat the manna. A host of angels descended to clean up the mess. The town folks rushed to the…
