To Mom She slouches in the chair whose alarm will screech when she gets up. “What is this?” she shouts indignant that this has happened- the chair, the bad food, the hospital bed, eighty-nine years of living and now her…
No matter when you’re born you will be whipped in the sand storm of seismic colonies colliding by their dividing and parching the earth to bury life denying any evidence of our presence And there is nothing to do but…
Poems Curated by J.P. Howard We are women writers, many of us are members of Women Writers in Bloom Poetry Salon(WWBPS) or long-time supporters of the Salon. We are diverse and multi-generational; many of us are women of…
How many years since mystery disappearance –who knows? in the basement his things his hurt glance with twinkle of defiance –coming off in charge “As far as we knew you were dead!” kilter of his belongings stored in the laundry…
My body would not give you up. An iris slow to open at the center of me, softened only by hours, in the rush of waters narrowed again and in the end, on the third day, had to be held…
There is a tilt to the world a lilt to the world when I think of her the imagined daughter I might just have one day a delight ringed by a thousand sadnesses of losses I imagine for it is…
If the football captain moves to the forest, will the cheerleader still gain weight? If you hate high school, is it easier to adjust to adult life? Do you give your kids advice or do you figure times have changed?…
Let me be the calm, let this be the place, let this be the center, eye of the storm, let it swirl all around outside of here. Here is the garden maples, redbuds, and oak trees shade you wrens, sparrows,…
Autumn Renga R. Erica Doyle, Monica A. Hand, Yona Harvey, Cherise A. Pollard, Kate Rushin Searched for shooting stars found silence in The Milky Way harvest home. (Kate) Blue moon is not blue it’s white just like all the…
Autumn Renga R.Erica Doyle Monica A. Hand Yona Harvey Cherise A. Pollard Kate Rushin Poets’ Group Selections Carol Brown – Refuge Ann Marie Gamble – Somewhere Near the Punch Bowl at the 30-Year Class Reuniom Dareth Ann Goettemoeller – When…
Sunday morning before my son stirs, I divide the milk for banking bag seven ounces for the ice box put aside a shot glass full for an offering * in one temple’s ritual re-enactment milk is flushed down a drain…
Second-one, smaller than the pea beneath the princess, you toss-and-turn me, my sleep lost in the branches of your mustard-seed-tree just sprouting around the trunks of my aorta. There are so many places to spread your leafy-you inside this insomnious…