Donna Hilbert: Credo
I believe in the Tuesdays
and Wednesdays of life,
the tuna sandwich lunches
and TV after dinner.
John Clare: Autumn
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
Tim Peeler: Two Poems
When you’re close enough,
Even chaos looks like order:
The falling star, the overturned
Cattle car, the psychotic mother’s
Meandering explanation.
Video: Walt Whitman — “Song of Myself”
Produced by Harvard University, this series of animations looks to poetry to explain what science renders dry and academic.
Michael Kleber-Diggs: The Grove
Planted here as we are, see how we want
to bow and sway with the motion of earth
in sky.
Mike Vargo: ‘Cat’s Cradle,’ Community, and Fascism
Maybe Bokonon had a point. Bokonon, for those not familiar, is a character in Kurt Vonnegut’s 1963 novel Cat’s Cradle. On a fictional Caribbean island, a holy man lives in the mountains. … Continue reading
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: Tonight, When I Turn Right on Ogden
By the time I turn onto the highway toward home
it is fifteen years ago
and my father is sitting in his favorite chair
James Crews: The Trouble with Beauty
The trouble with beauty
is the clinging to it,
wanting things to stay
the way they first appeared
Baron Wormser: Five Easy Pieces
Bobby has the dis-ease that is bred in the easy-going yet overbearing ways of his nation.
Compendium of Scientific, Medical, and Media Findings Demonstrating Risks and Harms of Fracking and Associated Gas and Oil Infrastructure
The risks and harms of fracking for public health, the climate, and environmental justice are real and growing.
Majid Naficy: Every Night in this City
Every night in this city
Thousands of people sleep on the street
Lisa Suhair Majaj: Two Poems
This is a body enfleshed,
like yours. This is a body
broken, like mine.
Keith Flynn: Granularities
Each organ seems like a streetlight in a neighborhood
viewed from the mountaintop at midnight,
going out slowly one by one. “It’s all downhill from
here, Son,” he tells me, “‘til I hit the bottom.”
Linda Parsons: Two Poems
I’m not a healer, though maybe
I am—my ordinary hands laid on the scathing past
to cool its sear, my palms a bowl cupping
the last drop of day in blind descent.
