Walking the Walk
When we walk–whenever we really walk, in an unhurried, unhassled way–we clear our heads, we get exercise, we
Scott Gregory
Filter / Sort
Three Sonnets
1. Richard Roberts, ca. 1954 He used to hold her down (my mother used to say) and lick. His long, pink tongue would
Randy Roberts Potts
Poet Issues
I have an almost pathological fear of poets. Well, not all poets. I developed my phobia in a graduate poetry
Carol Johnson
Malissa
1983 A week before, I bought my first maternity gear at the Goodwill, a brown empire-waist polyester top with
Jeanetta Calhoun Mish
Homecoming
For Uncle Max Greed, I guess—my father answered me uncharacteristically critical of our ancestors, their
Ken Hada
Eulogy for Ireland
*** Me, Shrouded in green, white, and orange I wake up tossing up electric blankets in my single-bed
Declan Kiely
Cicada III
I am drawn to the empty husk of the Cicada where it clings to the bark of a tree in my backyard. Fearing I will
Scott Aycock