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Page 103 of 112 pages. ‹ First < 101 102 103 104 105 > Last ›
Peter Rabbit Redux
Yeah, it's no lie: The little guy's doin' time now For that botched garden job, Sportin' stripes nowadays Instead of buttons And got great big tattoos On both ears. And his sibs? Well, They couldn't buy a break: Poor Miss Flopsy Had to get a biopsy, Lost all her fur…
I Like Your Profile
(sent from my Blackberry) Hi Karen5603, You beautifully typed and now I am learning you are a fun person who likes new adventures and you crave mint chocolate chip ice cream. But did you know mint chocolate chip ice cream is the 10th most popular ice cream consumed in the…
Julia Warhola Speaks
I am the mother of Andy Warhol. Right from beginning, Andy was special. When his brothers go to school, he stay home with me. I like to draw pictures…and so did he. We even draw picture of each other. I like to draw cat a lot and so did he.…
Barbas de Oro
(The Zephyr/Holy Spirit) “On hottest days,” My father said, “You have a friend, Named Barbas de Oro. If you call his name With respect and faith, He will come, and bless you with His grace.” The migrant fields exude their heat Mocking my poverty Challenging the myth At the age…
I Want to Live in an Edward Hopper Painting
Ed, I've loved your work for decades And so much do I admire you That someday a painting of yours will Be the place I hope to retire to. Gas stations, drugstores & offices A cheap chop suey joint. Automats, diners, hotels & motels I'll gladly help you anoint. I've…
The Rough Wooing
I Death of a King Scotland, December 7, 1542 Kneeling on stones in the chapel at Linlithgow, Marie de Guise heard the creak of an opening door, and, chilled by a sudden wind, a bitter gust, ceased praying—even as the flicker of flambeaux intensified, casting shadows on the floor, snakes…
Suite in Mudtime
—for Stephen Arkin i. Winterkill Deerhair, rough ring on rock. Winterkill. Not unlike the hair on my own skull, as my wag of a daughter might say. She's lovely, eleven. Nothing else—not even hide nor cloven hoof nor so much as the least small bone. Coyote economy: everything gone in…
Obituary for a Bay Tree
My stately friend is dead—no more that rare, flowering, age-old tree, its leaves no longer sway in the summer breeze, no birds nest in its branches, no bird sings, no squirrel shows its naughty face, no delicate white flowers, float down like fairy clouds, to feed the gentle deer browsing…
Raising My Arm
Okay, Stroke, so you snuck up on me and in a half-second, you assaulted my body and deranged my life. Yes, you murdered a piece of my brain… but not of my soul! Yes, you stole my freedom from my left arm, my left hand, my left leg, my left…
A Trilogy of Love and Loss
1. The Time Passed By Now that our summer's run its course and winter's pressing hard, will you still stay? Is there remorse for what we've done: defied the favors of the world, marred sacred vows once taken, received no easy tokens of fevered friendships broken? Say, now that all…
the death of memory
that must be the final indignity the thought that comes and goes explodes vanishes like some mythical gossamer thing that drifts in your mind the vision that completely disappears as if some invisible sprite had swiped it from some troublesome cobweb in your brain and hustled it away that image…
For My Ancestors
Who from opulent lips sang their slave songs from the bottom of hell, their dirges and their ditties their blues, their jubilees, prayed their prayers nightly, daily— humbly bending their knees to an unseen power to release the shackles of their oppression, lift the darkness of their despair. Strong as…
The Whittler
On the porch of a tin-roof shanty the whittler whittles with patient tenderness. His hands, dark as sorghum molasses are nicked and marred from cotton's wicked thorns. He chips and gouges, reveals the cedar's salmon-hued grain. Fragrant bark tumbles in Aida Mae's bed of hollyhocks. He whittles below the sun's…
To Steal, Or Not to Steal
(With apologies to Shakespeare's “Hamlet”) To steal, or not to steal: that is the question: Whether 'tis safer in the end to ignore The pickoff move of a left-handed pitcher Or to test a catcher's arm on a pitchout And by testing beat them? To slide: to steal; Once more;…
A Mother’s Musings
When you were but a thought, my child, I had dreams about you. I dreamt about the day you would cross the road holding my hand, Mother and son, a pretty picture. I thought of your first day at school, How heartbroken I would be when you left the house,…
Long Long Ago
Long long ago and far away I was an ambitious youth with plans everything seemed so far in the future there was no hurry— all of a sudden I am an old man looking back over the battles I have fought to only achieve some of my goals which kept…
Selling the Ranch
It's just a name scrawled on paper— wild cursive, as when he practiced in junior high to sign his name with distinction, some flair defying the uniform ovals of the Palmer method— his signature on the line their lawyer marked with a red X. With the first capital of his…
Another Crossing
This may have been the first time in years when I have been at the Carousel restaurant without my late wife, Vera, sitting in the chair next to me —the two of us chatting like magpies, holding hands or maybe teasingly rubbing knees under the table. I miss that tonight.…
Child’s Play
Poetry, it seems to me, Is easy, just like ABC. I started writing, so I'm told, When I was only one year old. By two, I had been published twice, And soon twice more, to be precise. They say I was real disciplined. A poet, nay, a wunderkind! Age three…
Not A Poem
The Coat
It happened without any warning there she was on her way to work crossing the intersection having just pulled the hood of the coat over her head when the car hit her and she was spun mercilessly into the harsh January air her arms flapping wildly like a frightened bird…
The Play Has Closed
Broadway at its finest hour, Set designs built true to life, Cast of five was my own family, “Curtain up!” Actors played against each other, Spoke their lines so loud and clear, Cries and sobs were all authentic From Act I. Tension held the play together. Dad, the drunkard, was…
Illusion
On a warm summer afternoon Light clouds drifting through the Blue, expansive, desert sky I sit quietly and watch Nature Buzzing and chirping Pine needles stirring Tiny lizards skittering across sun-baked stone. An electric green blur of little wings Whirrs past my nose Then launches straight up into the air…
Inside
Halfway through my junior year at Stanford, I was hit by a car while walking across the street. The injuries I sustained from the accident were substantial. I fractured my skull, suffered from an intracerebral hemorrhage, dislocated bones within my one good-hearing ear, and lost nerve function to the left…
After It Rains
When I was a child, my family lived right next to the ocean. My father, my mother, my brother, and I lived in a white two-bedroom house on Kaneohe Bay. The beach house was right off the scenic Kamehameha Highway, which wraps around the quiet North and East sides of…
King Elementary
Havarsham was a third grader of impeccable character. He did not talk over the teacher like Fatima and Ashley. He did not have a tattoo or piercings like Zeke. He did not hide in the bathroom like Jeremy or run in the halls like Jimmy. He did not scream, “We're…
Stranger
'An inventor of fantasies is a poor creature, heaven knows, when all the world is at war.' —Arthur Machen # 'Somebody really likes you!' said the voice on the phone. It was my agent. Yes, that's right, I actually had an agent. I still couldn't quite believe it myself. And…
Naughty Catholic Girl
Mother frightened me when she declared, “When you die you're going straight to hell and your father will be playing the fiddle there.” Although mother had conflicting beliefs about Catholicism she was still determined to guide her own brat pack of children into the church. First there was baptism followed…
A Rose by Any Other Name
“We have a white Charger out front ready to go. Would you like that?” asked the Enterprise man in the blue suit. “You're kidding? Of course I would,” I said, my eyes widening, excited now that my neighbor landed my mangled sedan into the body shop. I hopped in my…
A Mazey Grace
It would be either a cold jail cell or six feet under for me now if Mazey hadn't dropped into my life. Coincidence? Divine Intervention? Serendipity? You decide, after you hear my story… Joe and I were high school sweethearts. We laid eyes on each other in chemistry class, and…
She Hath Done What She Could
I drove to the hospital in the Yorkshire Dales and asked for Elizabeth Anne Langley, Bronte Ward. I asked the ward sister how the operation had gone. “Very well,” she replied, “knees can be a bit of a problem but she's a tough old bird, isn't she? Very good for…
Storykeepers
Alchemy: A power or process of transforming something common into something special; an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting. —Merriam-Webster Dictionary “I haven't been a saint my whole life, but I have done this one thing.” —René Psarolis As we crossed the Champs d'Élysées, I looked past Rogier's blond curls and the…
Kathleen Lynch
Kathleen Lynch publishes poetry, fiction, essays and photographs. Her full collection Hinge won the Black Zinnias national book award. Her chapbooks include How to Build an Owl, No Spring Chicken, Alterations of Rising, and Kathleen Lynch-Pudding House Greatest Hits. Her poems have been anthologized and appear widely in journals including…
Randy Gross
An ad man by day, a poet and playwright by night…his original plays have been performed regionally and internationally, most recently as a 1st place finisher in the Three Roses Players' “The Writer Speaks” series in North Hollywood (June-July 2011); as part of the New Plays Reading Series at the…
Wayne Edwards
Wayne is a native Texan. He graduated from Texas A&M University in 1957. He lives on a fish farm in Texas with his wife Ruth. He retired from his position as the US Air Force's nuclear security inspector in 1977. Wayne didn't start writing poetry until after he had obtained…
Jeff Cooke
I am almost 30 and a full-time student, giving way to change and exploring new career options. Thanks to a fun-loving and maybe tid bit crazy English teacher, Alison Lewis from Aurora Central High in CO (1998-99), I have had writing in my life. Despite being decent, before her class…
Payoff
Covered in my own sweat, I crumpled to the ground. The piercing flashes of hundreds of cameras sparkled all around me and thousands of people looked on and cheered as I fell, exhausted, onto the floor of Redbird Arena. So this is what it feels like, I thought. * *…
Paula Camacho
I moderate the Farmingdale Poetry Group and have published two books, Hidden Between Branches and Choice, and two chapbooks, The Short Lives Of Giants and November's Diary. I am President of the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society which selects a poet laureate every two years. My poems have appeared in…
Getting Schooled
We are small and untamed, a motley gang of kids in a pasture overgrown with bedstraw. The baseball field is our own creation, an ad hoc diamond wedged between the Lewis's barn and the paddock of sheep corralled with Electronet fence. First and second bases are marked by hay bales,…
It’s Working Out
I knelt on one knee, Batman on my right and Santa on my left, staring down at the trampled, muddy grass. I shifted back as a burly man with hair poking out from his orange tutu dropped to his knee in front of me. He smelled of sweat and stale…
Janette Berry
I am honored to be back on the winning team. This contest is fun and gives me a chance to vent over the woes of seasoning. This past year I have written a number of short stories (a few have been shortlisted in competitions) and an assortment of poetry, and…
In Which I Feign Injury to Get Out of Wrestling Tristan Reed
Middle school is the only time in your life when everyone you see falls cleanly into one of two groups: those who have abs, and those who will have to work to get through life. It did not take me long to find my group. When your last school was…
Pushing Tin
Tejo is under assault again. Some years ago the game was bought outright by South American beer companies, an attack that disturbed many at the time but which, in retrospect, has proved altogether favorable. The current assault is far more sinister. An anonymous online survey recently dubbed Tejo “the world's…
Boston You’re My Home
I was sitting on a couch in Saddam Hussein's Birthday Palace in the City of Tikrit, watching the end of the 2007 World Series on pirated satellite signals, purchased and subsequently wired by a really sketchy thin dude who kept showing me the porn channels. He was Iraqi and spoke…
Nancy Lee
Nancy Lee grew up in Berea, Ohio. Of mixed Korean, Japanese, and German heritage, she has lived in Tokyo and Seoul (where she taught English composition at Ewha Women's University), and now makes her home in Seattle, Washington. She received a B.A. in English and the James A. Veech Prize…
Skating to Seventy
On frigid mornings, before first light, sometimes I stand in a crumbling parking lot and watch slender forms materialize out of the dark. Sleek and insouciant as cats, they drag suitcases toward a low-slung building shimmed into the edge of a Baltimore golf course. The building is an ice rink,…
Stuart Anderson
I grew up on a 40-acre family farm in western Washington, then moved to the big city to study mathematics and physics, which I now teach at the University of Washington Instructional Center. Although I have always written poetry, I have seldom submitted any for publication. In 2003, I was…
The Missing Fields
It is 1987. It is summer. I am 13 and in my father's Saab. It is a yuppie car and he is not a yuppie. We are traveling in the dark of the pre-dawn light. We are heading towards his work, towards his store. I am the helper for the…
If Only Your Golf Clubs Could Speak
We are gathered here today for a memorial to our former master, Dave. Two months ago, Dave suddenly passed away while playing golf at the Hollow Promises Country Club. As we sit in the basement awaiting the garage sale this spring, I would like to remember Dave and the remarkable…
Ferocity
This is how I die. The thought wouldn't stop echoing through my head. With the force of will gained through fifteen years of martial arts practice, I tried to clear my mind. It didn't work. Flow like water, my sensei's calm voice whispered. Maybe I thought of this because fear…
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