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.
Michael Simms: Baron Wormser (February 15, 1948 – October 7, 2025)
Although history will have the final word on who among us is read by future generations, I’ll put my money on Baron. His writing represents the best of the American spirit.
Amy Lowell: Lilacs
The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs
Peer restlessly through the light and shadow
Of all Springs.
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko: Yes, I affirmed…
It was then that the light filtered through the curtain and passed through me as all things pass. Breathing out. Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in. Ah, Spring!
karla k. morton: Mountain Doggerel
I open night’s window
to the long song of the river—
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.
Sean Sexton: Whelmed+
I tap out my pipe, aware of the grand majesty
of a morning taking shape—all the breezes of the
yester-day settle like complaint grown silent.
Sean Sexton: Worth
I’ve wasted these days in the darkening hurry of the hours,
let myself—dryhanded, and ignorant—determine one aim in
deference to another.
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.
Chard deNiord: To the Muse
You wakened me to a dream of waking
in which I approached you and sang
your name.
Doug Anderson: Distance
She said my poems had emotion in them
as if they might have syphilis.
Baron Wormser: “Technology is our fate” 
Thus spoke the high-modernist architect Mies van der Rohe in the middle of the twentieth century. Nothing since then has refuted his remark. If anything, a good deal more fuel … Continue reading
Michael Simms: Bus
One afternoon at a bus stop in Ruston, Louisiana we picked up a single passenger, a huge man in a dirty plaid shirt, grease-stained khakis, and unlaced boots covered in mud.
Molly Fisk: The Lineage
the poets, tethered to each other
in the popular mind as if we were one
big family and we are
