Sunday, September 28, 2014

Still Life Beside a Lake

by Jonathan Aaron
From his collection entitled Corridor

Yes, everything's here, everything's right
where it should be, tranquil, luminous, sublime.
The wisdom of the ages, bread and books.
Not a hair on the nib of your pen;
you won't have to wipe it on your sleeve.
And you can be sure the wine cellar harbors only wine.
The elements present themselves - wind, stars, a storm.
But you're already dreaming up the names of sailing ships,
can't wait to get out of this place ...

Before you can say them aloud, or even sooner,
you're going to be running for your life,
like the pilgrim who fled Olympus because
he couldn't find a single goddess there.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Ice Cube

by Elliot

In a dream ...

I was an ice cube
Content - alone and detached
          in my encasement of blue plastic
Welcoming - the dark cold world
          I lived in 
          among the ice cream & frozen TV dinners
Hating - the sudden burst of light
          and short spurt of warmth
          that took yet another thing
          from my world
Then came the earthquake
I felt the walls tremble
          - a crack split through my spine
Your hand enclosed over my body
A warm, red substance
          - like amniotic fluid - 
          engulfed me - 
          pulsated through my pores
I touched your lips and felt
          part of me melt away
Intoxicated with this new existence
          I didn't care that I was
My identity - 
          merging with the fluids
          to be swallowed into you

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


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

Sunday, September 21, 2014


by Dean Young
From his collection entitled Bender

I find myself more and more among
those marginal characters who seem intent
on getting nothing done, decommissioned hussars,
jilted maids-in-waiting or fauns, even,
all wooly from the waist down realizing
their eon's over, no one believes in them
anymore and if you asked, Heck, they'd say,
We never much believed in ourselves.
It all happened so long ago, the storming
of the prison, the invention of happy gas,
the marriage of the sun and the moon. Suddenly
a lady might need her petticoat removed,
the band would play until the fuzz arrived
and the fairies were almost safe in piano bars.
But the certainties of any age will rot
as they are recycled and must be shoved aside
to allow the next loud, thunking youth
its anthems and wars, its splatter.
Such has been muttered since the end
of time and will be muttered more while
the world stays stitched with golden rays
and each finds her own way out.

Friday, September 19, 2014

General Nuke

"General Nuke" by Robert Arneson
Smithsonian Hirshhorn Muesum and Sculpture Garden

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Contour Drawing

by Kat Comer

Curious, I stoop to examine
a piece of tangled wood
put in my path by chance.
Ancient eyes carved by wind and rain
pierce me with an eagle's gaze.

I enter through the eye, a pool.
Bathed in multiple textures
I crack open worlds.
Shaped by vision
landscapes form and pass away.
My pencil traces borders of
an uncommon geography.

A mere shift in angle - 
Peaks rise like the breasts
of a woman aroused
and flatten to soft planes.
Prairie grasses brushed by wind.

Layers of bark peel away centuries.
The earth is naked and hardened to bone.
A prehistoric skull stares into sun.
Shadows crouch in its sockets.
The sea is countries away.

A map of South America
sketched on the wing of a tropical bird
plunges downward to sea
The moon is a shaman's drum
rising on the tide of dream
The jungle's heart beats
Steam rises
The polished leaves of rain forest breathe.

The vision passes.
A tangled piece of wood
hangs in my window.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Born to Be Stars

by Vincent Boateng
From his collection entitled The Jesus I Know

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us are content with just being fans
cheering in the shadow of other stars.

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us refuse to shine,
choosing instead to hide behind the clouds.

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us look for light
from sources darker than ourselves.

Friday, September 12, 2014

The Truth is Out There

Promotional Postcard for The X-Files, The Truth is Out There book series

Thursday, September 11, 2014

The Sacred Oak

by Peter Mitchell
from fragments of a scroll from the future

it took an hour
for the sacred oak
to acknowledge my presence
his space in the woods
became a magical place
full of wonders

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

The Nobodies

"The Nobodies" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

How My Grandmother Joined the Sky

by Cynthia Arrieu-King
From her collection, People Are Tiny in Paintings of China

In China, her daughters
and sons argued who'd
pay rent on her burial vault, 
so they reburied her
in the bamboo forest:
ceremony, white lotus,
getting drunk on wine.
They forgot to mark
the grave.
          In the country
shaped like a dragon
and packed with a billion
swallowed people, her ashes wait
and don't mind being misplaced.
Her ashes alone like an abandoned
dog while the wind sweeps all
the iron she was into its arms.

Sunday, September 7, 2014


by Elliot

Can you hear the snow fall
     upon sky imbued land
Pale shades of grey broken only
     by the dark skeletons of dead trees
     Whose leaves once green and gold
     withered - lifeless - buried
     under fallen snow
          Torn away from their lifeline -
          miles and months apart - their cries of anguish
          smothered by snow falling
Can you hear her spirit dying
     invisible blood upon empty sheets
In long, black nights broken only
     by exhaustion's insistent calling 
     Dreams once green and gold
     withered - lifeless - buried
     under the fallen tears
          Torn away from her lifeline - 
          miles and months apart - her cries of anguish
          smothered by
Snow falling headlong to the ground
     in a crash that breaks the stillness
     and drowns the leaves' cries - the soul's death - 
A last resonance before it fuses
                                                   into oblivion ...

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Tuesday, September 2, 2014


by Tomas Transtromer
From his collection entitled The Half-Finished Heaven

At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, towards some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.

It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.