Sunday, August 31, 2014

Friday, August 29, 2014


by Kat Comer

Slowly the dumb beast treads
heavy footed toward home.
His long black shag hangs
matted and dusty with age.
A funeral horse
submitting blindly
to the burden he carries
Bent figure shaped
like gnarled wood
rides lightly on the tired beast
and stares at me across the void
as if to say: "see me."

Thursday, August 28, 2014


"Bob" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

How the Past Comes Back

by Natasha Trethewey
From her collection entitled thrall

Like shadow across a stone,
     gradually - 
          the name it darkens;

as one enters the world
          through language - 
     like a child learning to speak
          then naming
everything; as flower

the neglected hydrangea
          endlessly blossoming - 
               year after year
     each bloom a blue refrain; as

the syllables of birdcall
     coalescing in the trees,
a single word:

as the dead bird's bright signature -
          days after you buried it -
     a single red feather
          on the window glass

in the middle of your reflection.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Friday, August 22, 2014

Words fly away

by Peter Mitchell
originally published on fragments of a scroll from the future

writing poetry
under a cloudy sky
A soft breeze lifts the words
off the page swirling
vanishing into the clouds

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


by Francesca Abbate

He tries to remember what the letter said
the first time he read it, which is like trying
to remember the look of the city you live in
before you knew it too well. Sometimes he sits

for hours, the clock loud on the kitchen wall,
the chair loose under his crossed legs, and out there,
the watchfulness of the trees, the gray river.
There was some message, a code he's forgotten.
But what can he do? What else can the mind do

with a map charting so much dark water?
At night, it turns the familiar colossal, ungainly,
tries driving its audience wild with dreams.
The heroes go down singing. They go down

with mouths full of thorns. There's the stage again,
and the smell of the house - autumnal, heavy
with smoke and leaf dust - and there
he is, calling out from the wings, "Moon,
you're so rich, why don't you buy me something?"

And the moon sailing into the curtain's blue folds.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Postcards From Europe (1988): William Blake

"... At once, I was in the Spirit, and lo, a throne stood in heaven, with one seated on the throne! And he who sat there appeared like jasper and carnelian, and round the throne there was a rainbow that looked like an emerald. Round the throne were twenty-four thrones, and seated on the thrones were twenty-four elders, clad in white garments, with golden crowns upon their heads. From the throne issue flashes of lightening, and voices and peals of thunder, and before the throne burn seven torches of fire, which are the seven spirits of God ...
... And round the throne, on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind: the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with the face of a man, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle. ... "
... And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to him who is seated on the throne, who lives for ever and ever, the twenty-four elders fall down before him who is seated on the throne and worship him who lives for ever and ever; they cast their crowns before the throne, singing, 'Worthy art thou, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for thou didst create all things, and by thy will they existed and were created.'"
- From Revelation, Chapter 4 (The New Oxford Annotated Bible)

The Four and Twenty Elders casting their Crowns before the Divine Throne by William Blake, 1805,
pencil and watercolor

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Song Lyrics #2

By Eric Peters

The highway is calling
The road is a way
To open the eyes of your heart and make you pray
The river is calling
The water's a way
The sea is a story that will make you pray

The road is a living thing
The sea is a giving thing
Your heart is a holy thing
The road is a living thing

The night time comes crawling
on down the hill
The light as it fades sings out in praise so still
The dreams that come calling
plant seeds in your mind
The ideas that grow are mirrors that show you why

The night is a living thing
Your dream is a growing thing
Your heart is a holy thing
The night is a living thing

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


From Jack Kerouac Book of Haikus

In the sun
   the butterfly wings
Like a church window

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Fruit of the Spirit

Painting by Erin Adero

"But the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness,
faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law." 
-Galatians 5:22-23

Fruit of the Spirit by Erin Adero, acrylic on canvas

Thursday, August 7, 2014

The Battle Between Whont and Knead

by Matt Sise

General Whont is a short, ugly demon of a man.
General Knead is long and lean in his gorgeous tan.
They did battle by the statue of the Grand Dame.
Whont broke off an arm, and Knead did the same.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

It was the statue they fought with; the statue they fought for -
He who won the statue won the fight, the battle and the war.
The beauty of the Grand Dame gave eternal life,
But the victor had to go through internal strife.
Knead hit high, and Whont struck low.
Whont swung again, and Knead returned the blow.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

They broke off more, because it gave power to win the fight.
Knead was fighting because he loved the Dame with all his might;
Whont was trying to gain power and out of lust.
They fought until the statue was dust.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

They keep fighting, though they don't know what for.
They've been fighting so long, no one cares anymore.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Monday, August 4, 2014


by Philip Booth
From his collection of poetry entitled PAIRS

Old spirit, in and beyond me,
keep and extend me. Amid strangers,
friends, great trees and big seas breaking,
let love move me. Let me hear the whole music,
see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words,
that I may shape them to ploughshares of my own making.
After such luck, however late, give me to give to
the oldest dance . . . . Then to good sleep,
and -- if it happens -- glad waking.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

So Devilish

So Devilish by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas