Those flattened-down fronds and tree limbs too, the holes in our road frozen over, and in our yard this morning the little birds stir for what little food they can—like us, their lives held together by such small things.
Poetry
A hot bath with David Bowie’s last record
At their height the veins in these hands looked like power cords, like ridge lines on the moon pumping blood from the heart to the fingers, swollen blue but now, more summertime worms scarcely seen, dried up, bloodless: there, it… Read More ›
For all its life, it ends in a poem
I laid the little bird inside a planting pot with a leafless plant, a veil of snow on top— and as the wind picked up I imagined it coaxed the little bird’s soul along, somewhere new— and when I held… Read More ›
The January moon will never be full again
Cruel slant of a moon that could be a fang or a hook, a nail, or a cat’s claw stuck to the sky, pulling it down gloating, feeding until it’s full— but the moon looks empty, full like it wants… Read More ›
“Found”
In the darkest places of rest the mind finds what’s left in our pockets whether we wanted it found or forgotten.
Poem for Bukowski on horses, days, the rain
The days ran down the side of the hill the way the rain can, how you don’t notice it’s worn down the surface until it slides right off. Inspired by the title of a Bukowski poetry collection, The Days Run… Read More ›
Guest post by poet Rick Subber
Today I’m pleased to feature a poem by Rick Subber, a writing mentor of mine, dear friend, and fellow blogger. I hope you’ll check out Rick’s blog for smart, light-hearted but deep insights and enjoy his piece here “Nova.” Nova… Read More ›
If the world could be a sweater and I could try it on before buying it
Bit by bit he watched all the iPods, phones, and tablets come back ashore, come back to the store with their cords and their cases, and he put them in a box in the back to be picked up on… Read More ›
Birth rights
Perhaps it was on that day I was very small, I decided what I wanted to be. There was a small satisfaction in that, a place to sit and fit. And we all need that. I remember they were happy… Read More ›
A matter of degrees
Lily’s crying upstairs now but it’s not the cries of a child, it’s the depths of horror, of hormones. She doesn’t seem interested (in an emotional way) in the bedtime ritual, it’s more transactional now—like anything, it doesn’t happen overnight,… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 