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June 27, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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for Carrie grace is a stretch you walk sitting or kneeling after a stroll, an exhale at a sanctuary of sounds the string, the harp, the woodwind quartet, a rhythm section plays for you a...
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June 25, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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0
Carry me waking across the world where, in Nice, strawberries ripen in a wooden cart. The morning yawns azure beyond the fruit sellers. The Mediterranean beckons to fishermen & stones....
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June 23, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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Like you, I am built out of sky: light & air I use to mend the bones I owned before your body roamed free & I made of myself this silence large enough to multiply in my womb where...
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June 22, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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When at night her feet grew roots and her chest split open waking her she stood in front of a mirror to examine her breasts where a new lump sprouted under her fingers ...
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June 22, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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I wish he wouldn’t say “Napoli” as if we all should know where he means, and what it means that he has been there; I wish he would say “Detroit” or “Portmore” and then...
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June 22, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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A narrow path to the shore flickers across the water’s face. I will gather time and smiles along the way. My eyes slide down the sky’s long green corridor. The setting sun is a...
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June 22, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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We always feared finding somethinggruesome—a severed hand, a fetus,something it would be impossibleto forget, no matter how many tideshad come in and gone out again. But, what we did...
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June 21, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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LOOKING BACK (after Aracelis Girmay) I thank God for the plastic table on the porch of this apartment, this apartment and the porch. I thank God for the light coming through the window from...
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June 20, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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of hog plums & figs, there’s a song but the coconut tree is sleeping so I don’t compose under it or ask it for shade My guitar has a fever in it; it needs its own seat....
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June 2, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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Counting breath Far away from Fifth Avenue, a sparrow, its tiny needle heart above mine. No more falling earth. No more trains bound by time. No more hours in the gut of the city. Now:...
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June 1, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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0
I flinch from the sparks. Everything is blurs and ashes. Once in a while, a cloud separates and breaks from the herd crowding the sky above me. This lets a star, like a brilliant mistake,...
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May 31, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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If you care, it’s a lot easier than you hear. All you need to know is Still Point. Find the Still Point in every breath. Then exhale on Still and inhale on Point. Still Point Still Point...
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May 31, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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0
After the lions, by the tattered aviary, we can’t help but try it — peering up and sneering at the unapproachable sky like clipped birds of prey, hopping left, then right,...
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May 30, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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Running sprinting antelope twisting avoiding lion turning breathing moving eyes forward around trees over stream antelope tires lion leaps claws dig bite— preyneck toothfulfillment ...
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March 27, 2017 |
in Poetry |
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0
He’s inside the clock in the airport. Only the hour hand is painted in. The man dips his brush in the paint can and traces a long black line, uniting the center of the clock with the...
[new_royalslider id="17"]
Ana Flores is a sculptor and ecologist. Her work is informed by how pla
2 Poems
Let Me Straddle Your Mind
The Crusader
Yeah bring our electric shaver back, I bought it we shaved each others back
it was important to me
Kwame Dawes
1
Yes, we were country, lived in shotgun
shacks, where the road loses its way
to dirt and live 
[new_royalslider id="11"]
Courtesy of the artist and Mizuma Art Gallery
"Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to lea
Junot' Diaz
and Edison, NJ
The first time we try to deliver the Gold Crown the lights are on in the house but no on
Elegy & Poem
"We are all the other."
…and find inside a picture,
of myself as a child, sitting
on a small chair, wearing overalls
an
Raphael Perez
To Alex, on turning two
Some say the Ring of Brogar
is the Circle of the Moon.
There is n
March on Washington
An Interview with Cheryl Evans
In a strange twist of what seemed
like reverse vandalism, the Graffiti
Mecca was painted over. 
Forest Gander
A Translation
Quassan Castro, poem
Grandson to Grandmother
Wynwood Walls, of Miami has been called "a Museum of the Streets."
Low like the mean dream
of Newark the sky must
have seemed to its builders.
Rickety now, unhingin
At last, the extremes
of his present methods
seemed to offer
the happiest avenues.
The strengthe
5th Limb
Poems
Poem, Knot
Poem, Look This Way
Xue Du, Poem
A woman in a black kimono dyed black hair
disappeared behind a black curtai
Poem:
Behind the War On Women
Maria Mizzotti-Gillan
Short Story
Pilar Fraile Amador
poem
Lady Haiti
David Trinidad
Landzy Theodore
Angelo Nikolopoulos
