wind whine through willow and wire hiss of snow past yellow grass-- overture
Lee Robison's poem "Love Has No Moon" to appear in anthology.
Eric Studdard was working on his three hundred and twenty-third masterpiece. This one would be a winner for sure. He had spent the better part of an hour on it and the poem was currently two hundred and ninety-seven words long, with thirty-one lines and seven and ¾ completed verses. It was composed along the … Continue reading “Cynosure” Fumbles a Masterpiece
The seven magpies in the willow thicket reminded Harry of the West Washington Creek Book Coterie. (Harry had some hesitation in calling the group a "Book Club," the reason for which will become obvious, presently.) The difference between the magpies and the coterie was that the magpies were not regularly emptying and filling water glasses … Continue reading Book Club Goes off the Rails
Gale Vasher was pretty tired. He was tired of work, he was tired of airports and airplanes, he was tired of the na na na na of meetings that never got anything done, and he was just plain tired. Gale Vasher wanted to get home, finish a week of reports and analysis of na na … Continue reading Nine out of Eleven Connections are not so Good.
She’s no mealymouth art, that damned mother of wordbirth— nothing fickle about that old tart. Honest as the odor of earth true as you in all your affairs, she is nothing—only your worth. How you carry her loamy dares to amend the alter altar you’ve built of your damaged despair will tell only the soily … Continue reading For Student Poet Dreaming of Inspiration
You ride your draw or quit. And quit I do not know. But this black-blazed bastard took his head the first jump out, slamming numb my arm, leg, and every thought for tongue I tried. So, I raked the only spur I had left and willed from numb enough to mark and keep this muscling … Continue reading Stroke
“ForthelovaGod, Micky” Eunice said from the crack in the door, “You’ll catch your death.” Mike heard her but did not turn. It was raining. Not just a high skirted wisp of clouds trailing across the sky with more promise than water, but a full throttle, fine spray, all day rain. He stood in it. He … Continue reading Rain Comes
Soil entombs no deeper chagrin for gilded nativity than barned birth So how does empty blue of sky exult any more than the brown odor of earth?