Sonnet 45

Decadence Outside Dior’s

Words

Frostbite

Jamie got drunk on a cold night, slept outside, and didn’t protect his feet. He limps into the shelter, leaning on chairs for support, sleeps on a...

Death-Bridge Keeper’s OTHER Five Questions (THREE Questions!)

To WHAT, from what, is time a bridge? Of WHO and WHAT is that bridge a carrier? To WHAT do the people and things the bridge carries across and back throw up a collective — and insurmountable — BarRRier??? Born...

Free Poetry Skool @ Downtown Public Library

Poets gather like words on a page scribed in their own handwriting as illustrious lines they embody poetic form — such as , a tercet , perhaps — where this...

Taking a Short-cut on a Dead-end

You know... I’ve been dying, more than I’ve been living I’ve been making more than I’ve been giving You’re telling me I’ve been forgiven, what am I...

Bring an Original Poem to Class

Scary things, scary things The things that have created me All come back, so haunting Surrounded now, I can not breathe. Can someone please Soon help me Rid my life...

focus

where was the attention span placed? look under the rubble the distracted clutter of mind is hiding there somewhere it would have remembered to call if the blue jay...

The failure in our living

Dying where we stand, slouched, our eyes closed, hands covering our ears, one could almost imagine the world has stopped revolving, a silent protest against our collective indifference of the rot...

Viewer’s Choice

Those who can afford tickets to the theater, opera, savoring the culture of a city of prosperity, where millions skimp on meals, worry about their children denied opportunity because of poverty, tormented...

Broken Poem

There is a poem lying beside the road, its red fur ablaze in the morning sunlight. The spine of the poem is broken and one leg is partially...

Small Window

I discern a tiny space in one of fifteen minutes; two days later, I deduce which one, approach it and peer inside (can’t tell whether it’s bright or dark), hoping to glimpse a poem — or the closest edge of one. Jethro McClellan was born in Boston, moved out West before he turned five, and has called Boulder home for most of his life....

Landscape, Mid-Consequence

The oft-oppressive miracles of the combustion engine beckon from whiny highways of a degradation we must call fair An asymmetrical face appears in the exhaust drift between the taillight and...

A Body Built of Folk and Lore

Deep in the hills and between the streams. Where fables are passed and the willows weep. Where wind flows through the tree tops. And the children grow...
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