In the greening pasture beige stalks of last year’s yellow sweet clover Posted in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt verdant.
When we speak how else break banality to seek why and how the lofted stars are and are not ours. Where else stand naked, hand in awkward hand to know the who of thinking of— the make of making love? How else know the loss when flowers blow or how the now and here is … Continue reading Why Poetry
From here to Idaho vast empty white miles of snow— my coffee, black.
Snow sifting through thorns:: old couple:: no need to speak of odor of roses.
We had only cameras and yearning, but the wind rasped stone like a hot tongue, and camera and yearning were not enough to savor the ripening along the Jordan River, the salt sea, that bitter Wilderness wind and the candescent wafer of the sun. We entered the chapel, hoping for respite, ease, relief. There were … Continue reading American Christians Visit Mt. Nebo
Max: Most of my life I’ve believed what these eyes see these hands can touch, that seeing and touching, being touched, ends when they nail the coffin lid on. But, my mother, your grandma, had the last word on this creed the fall after she died, when I saw her one last time. I’d started … Continue reading Hunter’s Visitation
It’s dark. Tail lights are red ellipses of the sentence of our journey. Belief prevails that a light will clear the empty dark— will open uncertainty like a poem with a hero like Achilles, a goddess like Aphrodite, and tell us into the wonderful story of our lives. An erasing rain garbles what light there … Continue reading On the Bus
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
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