Naomi Shihab Nye: Every day as a wide field, every page
And there were so many more poems to read!
Countless friends to listen to.
We didn’t have to be in the same room—
the great modern magic.
William Shakespeare: Sonnets 73 & 74
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Early Morning Considerations After a Night of Rain
Good morning, welcome, new Thursday. I arc
the blankets away. The dog sheds gladness all
around me as war news shrapnels out of NPR.
Doug Anderson: Poem
I can’t help but write it, get up in the morning and there it is. Useless, worth nothing on the market. No piece of oil field technology, nor can it … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Tucson, 1970
I remember standing in a long line being processed into jail. Guy behind me is furious: they’ve handcuffed him to a transvestite who is smiling at his discomfort. They put … Continue reading
Jose Padua: The Cold War of my American Dream
It was in the sixth grade when Sister Geraldine took us bad listeners and day dreamers out into the hall one afternoon to repeat after her, one by one, “The … Continue reading
Jose Padua: I have Driven from the Forest and the Mountains
I have driven from the forest and the mountains through snow, wind, and rain and various times of day, in heat and in cold, during love and during hatred, with … Continue reading
Jose Padua: Fear and Whiskey
To the young actor between roles who was my supervisor at my temporary data entry job at Goldman Sachs, and who tried to make me get his coffee when … Continue reading
