National Poetry Month, Week 2 Wrap-Up
Here are the poems that were featured for Week 2 of National Poetry Month: “When Capturing Wolves” by Leonard H. Roller — Lessons on how to capture the spirit of wolves in art. “Waterborne” by Laurie Sewall — Inspired by the flooding of the Iowa River. “Iron Rails and Water Dreams” by Larsen Bowker — A nostalgic look at the rural Midwest. “Losses, Reachings” by Doug Bolling — Contemplating the intersection of writing and loss. “Lennon” by Hilary Sideris — A view of John Lennon from the perspective of Keith Richards. “Earth” and...
Read MoreWater
The lichens come up easily in my teeth, and the bits of stone stuck to them don’t bother me. My face is a curtain of rain, it sinks into the ground where I see insect nymphs starting to crawl, and I am to them a warm fragrance, milk in the soil. When I rise in the air, songbirds fly through me, sharp wings against naked flight. I borrow leaves from the trees to wear, but they lick me clear; I drop as dew, again biting the lichens, bitter green...
Read MoreEarth
In my bed, I am wrapped in stones I hear a train blowing its whistle the middle of the night I roll toward the train and it listens to me the rails don’t list are straight as anything the back of my head is toward the night-window ...
Read MoreLennon
(based on Keith Richards’ memoir, “Life)” A silly sod in many ways, John was. I liked to tease him for the way he wore his Fender high, under his chin. “Try a longer strap, John, for Christ’s sake; it’s not a violin. No wonder you lugs only rock, can’t roll.” But they thought it was cool. Maybe you had to be from Liverpool. He wasn’t one to mince opinions; said my “It’s All Over Now” solo sucked, and he was right. He was my...
Read MoreLosses, Reachings
Your poems have arrived. Sea gulls wheeling toward shore messages swarming everywhere. I ask you how a single poem can take the whole earth in its palm, even time gathering there in its silent wings. How is it you left the Bay of Biscay and didn’t send me the news of death. Uncle Samuel shriveled and pale in his Bordeaux apartment near the quai. I ask if you witnessed his last words and captured them in a poem that can strike through stone and make a radiance out of the...
Read MoreIron Rails and Water Dreams
(for Paul “Wolf” Larsen) Born in a town where dogs were mongrels milk cows were skinny-uddered slaughter-house cattle, and farmers scratched out survival on gully-rigged farms best-suited for cattle grass, Coyotes, Russian Thistle and Prairie Dogs, farms where I stacked bales in haymows of airless barns, town where at Sunday Church I sat beside auburn-haired Shirley Franzen with skin so white and lips so red, I gave myself frequently to the Jesus of her fevered faith, even though I believed mostly in my father’s faith in his own two hands. At sixteen I believed in...
Read More