Why should she give her bounty to the dead?                                     ~Wallace Stevens I sit in this poe

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,And here on earth come emulating flies                                          

changes when air closes in, the fog hangs tight and I forget all but the tree-woven roof over my steps & porch, the hot wet rosy white radishes I bite with a strawberry that gives to the touch. My 9'X9' patch of dirt yields salad af

Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.                        &nb

a little remains dangling, splash of wild in flowers and fish scale roofs, a moonchild - to see clearly one must cross a frontier cross the street, visit the chocolatier to a door that knows everything from your eyes - listen to songs of redwi

when the trumpet plays a morning begins where I bite through experiences, fat, stuffed queen olives, one after another I read poetry of moonlight and dewdrops - mystical morning fog makes a dragon of the old cart horse and a castle of your

i.Such self-indulgent writes, am I in lovewith worlds of my creation? Or is lovemy bread crumb trail to feed life’s hungry dove?Conceit within these lines—that I know whatit is to lie in dirt, that I paint whatwill come to pass of blossom

sit here at my side put up your little feet while I sing war songs by firelight betrothed by wine we marry poems in a musty book hearts a handful of dust might we be the happy dead how thin and clear the battle call across the miles how our women car

she's counting duck down willows in a dangerous storm people outside should avoid windows short songs are winter - the sum of her stories in bubbling stew and cozy fresh-baked bread at mind’s sunset, we all say grace fortunate as a howli

does a poem have to be       a big idea bigger than the brightest stars in my field of view from my front porch bigger than the drone of crickets or frogs      never is there silence a tho

if only pockets held talking bonesand answers that you might not likeas much as I do – if I could producesearch lights on a dime sweeping back alleys and bedrooms for the drama of it all, if I could laughlightly at cliffside, waves sculptinga g

and I can be self-indulgent while I write, the pencil keeping track of tolls the close dawn with insides milky wise, above catching of morning never the permanence of curbstones, or of houses along the streets there are just the coyotes laughing

the alarum of the bell won’t be still we hear about the war, but the actual bodies are not to be seen fountains howl like a baby as I get older, my gills grow lungs I want to breathe music whose call echoes in my left and, next, my right ear

A madman is selling stray cats in an open-air market for those that inhabit ancients cities where all goes undisturbed inside their walls. By traffic’s sleek melodies, he is led to a door which leads nowhere though he theorizes its threshold ma

if I button my eyes tightly enough if I inhale completely enough this heavenly body will flow from my lungs, follow along my arms its inhabitants will funnel through my fingers, blotting a blank page a spider descends on a silk tethered to a tre

covered in marmalade her head she’s the sweetest thing going I wondered if I had time for the finger           moving before morning sunshine coming in the window my fantasy here beneath the b

this morning I’m ready if you arebut did you hear the clams screaming on the mudflat yesterdaydid you hear the peacocks crying“what am I ready for?”there is no time but the one to be quickon this day nineteen seventy four bee ceeon

I’ve kept your chair open on the front porch tipped over in the rain to keep it dry where grateful dead burns by mosquito torch a blue green fire kindled to keep me high on these nights alight, dancing on the bar hips slung, shirt riding up, be

I take a picture of flamboyant trees beforeand after the rain I am that way too subdued true gray only to clatter into reds when storms stop I want to dance around the first fire playing nose flute to the base belly of a bullroarer’smastery of

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my phosphorescent heart wings the yellow finch on its way beyond insect after insect and soon you will sing        physicists are magicians netting quarks and light from the first of time – geologists sq

excerpt from Making Poetry Submissions by Chris Hamilton-Emery # Avoid portentous, weighty titles: “The Succulent Dark of My Fading Time,” “Dread Fires of The Iron Soul,” & Co. are sure to raise the hackles of every edit

a song I thought was silentglistens like scales of fishes still -in the dry country whippedby winter winds wanting toenter windows, my fingerstingle as they point northI wear a dress, magnificently tornpoised on the wingtips of angelsbut no - angels

a blue green bottle fly skips from branch to branchthree times; each twig cradles a dozen drops of dew refracting the last look you gave her – orangingthe dark woods call, if four birds answer, how longwill you stay? forgetting forms, her lines