Poetry
My Heart
By Nancy Takacs It’s a pond of turtles sleeping with one eye shut. The turbulent run-off from all the snow in a Yellowstone May. Natural water slide. A figurine of a sheep carved from sandstone, wound with wool. It’s lightning quick, my heart. It turns the pages like a sea slug who undulates and... »
Untitled
by Mark M Life offers unending opportunities for compromise. Say anything you want about me as long as it’s the truth and as long as you don’t tell my employer. We shall come over. If at first you don’t exceed, try, try to gain. You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot... »
little places where we caution little secrets not to wander
by Matt Specht and the rain on the water hear it hiss hear it hiss as it falls upon the autumn like the silent static kiss of my TV watching me as i sleep as i weep for the bill unpaid on monday for the bill you laid last week and i wake i... »
The Millau Viaduct
The Millau Viaduct i. Dancing nymphettes of gossamer raise their skirts like swans waking: their heads rising, one leg touching the misty morn. ii. Airy armada of dolphins scuds ‘bove the Tarn Valley with sleek fins and white tails peaking in the noon-bright. iii. Excellent elephants of the air, are they not? Attached, encaptived,... »
Hellborn
by Phil Lane Hellborn, and like a Sioux, every sunrise is a vice to contend with, a white man’s worst enemies—alcohol, tobacco, tents where no thieves can break in, coyote runs wild again, a child grown so old, so loveless, so thin, on this postmodern frontier, there is only one desk, one chair. I... »
The Roman Bridge on the Vidourle
The Roman Bridge on the Vidourle for Chuck Svitavsky The Mediterranean sun has bleached the face of this ancient bridge, making of stones the weavings of a blank tapestry. Where are the gods whose statues blessed the alcoves of these spandrels? Where are the lions of war roaring at the sun and rain? Where... »
Hell Gate Bridge
Hell Gate Bridge I Never has that humped-back rail piker known a pedestrian or biker. No DUIs scraped along its side Or stopped to vomit or suicide. No poets have writ encomiums; No college bands have marched their drums, No anniversary fireworks —Just ignorance of . . . or churlish smirks. II Well, let... »
The Pont du Gard
The Pont du Gard The Pont du Gard is old. Its piers were gold, but now are stained with mould. We know its raison d’etre was aptly met in keeping Romans wet. That use has now all passed And did so, fast, to history’s nodding blast. The flat and arching stones like ancient bones... »
Poetry Feature
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