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

tis hard to find a hole in the skywhere I am allowed to bea starfish on the floortime wrapping dogs and daughtersnothing to fill the unthinkable wellchildren angry when their roomisn’t cool enough, when I haven’tgiven them the alphabettha

next to me the cave is as wide as two wooley mammoths I can sit at the top in a cradle of rock above the dirt floor a forked broom of sticks and the geology is ours, names scratched under our perch on the path down, our cliff lies below the color o

stuffed in the breast pocket of a shiny suit his paper notes centered lines and cross-outs no smudges because he’d long since worn his eraser down he wrote of her thighs and the lap they made the 5 and 10 where she'd chosen a flowered

the road was just as black as yesterday and the california sunset didn’t work for me my mother of pearl banjo lies stagnant while I think of a french toast breakfast that might bring you back to the page I’ve left blank for you the sunf

let’s have no more scenes turn the stones of contention into archipelagos flagstone streets leading to diamond shores of sea glass where history is finally written first steps wear hollows in field grass, beating down daisies and purple vetch

  the trees are bored and restless leaves quiver making the air move into a wind that carries me into a song of saxophones and french horns filling spaces and hollows with harmonics     the fiddle notes lift the pin

Arabella chews her cud - most mornings, contented enough but suddenly the deal loses appeal, teats tugged calf-less by cold steel and she looks at them all, black-on-white, flank-to-flank - from her neighbor next-door to the one after that and af

After being a wife, a whore’s skin feels tight.                                 &nbs

I wanted to sit on the porchand look at stars tonight because sometimes I feel there is no poem without thembut the sky thwarted me with its cloudsand I was left with the cat – (surprisingly patient) on Sydney’s photo tableau of giant Ger

is live!from east to west bicoastal verseRead our featured poets James Lineberger, Yolanda Calderon-Horn and George Wallace. Print out our pdf tribute to National Poetry Month featuring Deidre Elizabeth, James Lineberger, Terry Lucas, Craig Kirchner,

From east to west: bicoastal verse (print edition #1) is available for your reading pleasure with 3 years of its featured poets includingJack Anders, Coleen Shin, John Sweet, April Ossmann, James Lineberger, Jalina Mhyana, Tara Birch, Terry Lucas, PJ

in time's trembling fist a black and white checkerboard extends to the horizon but senses no edge and in the absence of shadow no depth                   

under a down swept sun, we are as strangers to our molecules to atoms formed in the hearts of stars and supernovae we run in long wavelengths through Sundays along highways behind the rain — these occasions stu

a week ago I wasn't wearing a coatthe skating rink downtown was a lakea couple had jumped from landto the bench seat in its midstto hold hands and watch the ripplesmade by the warm breath of whomeverand now this platinum outsidethe best part, the

who lived in a house with a red front door and had a smile white like summer lightning a dinner out was at the dime store scrambled eggs and a song on a heart string played on the jukebox with a pinkish prayer madelaine sunbathed riverside, singing

into herohood come the flowersall penning postcards on Sunday afternoonsfull of surprising heretical writingsthat pit piston against stamendawdling or drawing, the architect wondersif his tower of glass can support itselfthat's wrong, he knows it

black dirt rows divide the fava beansjune sun shines between pillars of rockhere are shades and lights laying lines betweenyour idea and my plan for love       talksinto monday and moonstones, nights forswornto rasp

snow tumbles like live coals from a volcanostands still and vibrates while I passgrows tough as sea grass on the dunesblurs like love growing closetrying to draw nearsnowflakes are galaxies on my windowpaneswollen like insects on pollenyour presence

red flowers question the 108 paved thingsmaking up the belly of the pomegranate its fleshand white breast the breast a moonrests on a sedan in a sari of silvergiving more and a kis