If Stephen King Wrote Poetry it still goes on those little things that annoyed me about you the casket’s closed but the kitchen cabinets remain open it’s like you’re here going through the junk drawer leaving the toilet seat up... Continue Reading →
Morning Crisp at the Cottage We stayed up late. Sitting back in our yellow Muskoka chairs, to see the stars, we were graced with the Northern Lights, all green and flashing. Sleep followed with a constellation of dreams and Milky... Continue Reading →
Almanac Summer— scratching surface yields cooler ground. Winter’s deeper—reach down beneath the frost line— warm as worms. Lick a finger in the wind. We know nothing. But the dogs always plant their bellies in a temperate zone. About the... Continue Reading →
The Swamp Oak Balding leafage lets the eye slip through to scabrous bark that runs past rot holes hiding squirrels. Twisted branches contort around power lines, reaching upward and straining to recover grace. The tree sways toward a century it... Continue Reading →
Fragmented I am a prism, the pieces of myself fragmented into color-coded chambers. I am a spectrum split between wavelengths of refracted inferred and iridescent radiance. I isolate, absorb, and reflect. I am a double helix, fighting upstream on a... Continue Reading →
Inspiration Buffet: This week’s buffet features "Since you asked" a poem from Jane Attuncci's chapbook First Mud. Her poem delivers the question of, "Are you writing the poem or is the poem writing you?" Since you asked - by Jane Attanucci... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 