Category: WrittenWordWednesday

Five-Point-Two Miles

And so, I went walking car dodging, road hopping, side walking past a greyscale alley. You went with me, held me back when foot slipped into traffic and life flashed memories. She went with me, yelling about walking exactly two-point-six miles to the sea….

autumn light flashes…

backlit red maple leaves glowing against shadowed bark

autumn light flashes my son blending sounds into words ©2018 by Jennifer Roman Jennifer Roman lives in Millstone Township, NJ with her husband, identical twin boys, and dog, Chewie. She has been published in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, Presence, Mothers Always Write,…

Old Apple Tree

old barn where forest shows through gaps in the boards

Old apple tree low and round, trunk so squat you guess the rest is standing underground. Sunken barn beside the road, waving boards cut short by fire, or lowered by the years. Apples tart and dry, building falling down, along the graveyard road just…

Lopping Them Off

pruned branch weeping sap

Persimmons proclaim their youth when bitterness puckers our jowls. Few mature into sweetness. The unskilled arborist prunes the branches, partially severed, kerfs collapsing, tearing bark from the trunk. Decay enters into unclean cuts. Stubs sprout suckers and obscure the tree’s interior from sunlight. At…

The Continental Woe

tea in glass mug reflecting the sky

surviving on peaches and tea what weary wanderer will walk for peaches and coffee ©2018 by Justin Haenel Justin Haenel Lives and writes in Vermont. He dabbles in it all, but gravitates towards the briefer poetry.

Excerpt from WATERSHED

painting of mountains and river by Randle Panfilio

A poem from Jean L. French’s collection — now available in Global Edition. Incanto I call the name of rain a secret name without words. A wisp of cloud grows all day it grows cloud gathers to fullness releases, whispering back to me rain’s…

Between April and May

Coyote hunts the streets like a stray dog, her claws clicking along the asphalt. Among the urban diaspora, her lean shanks and rusty coat look primordial or alien. Her teeth flash among headlights like slashes of white paint on a dark canvas and her…

The day you got tattooed…

puffy clouds in a bright blue sky

the air was thick, and the sky was locked between white and grey. When you lifted your sleeve, they stared back at me like magic marker on the kitchen wall… those markings that will forever brand my child. The ink on your arm was…

My Own Nairobi

colorized ripples on a stream surface

“How is it possible to bring order out of memory.”           ~Beryl Markham, West with the Night. In the mud on the bottom of my boots, I spot a flake of gold mixed in. I take a sharp knife and loosen it out staring at…

the sunset…

sunset over Grassington UK

the sunset unravels its cloak across sky . . . I wait for deepest night to drink my fill of stars ©2018 by Debbie Strange Debbie Strange is an internationally published short form poet, haiga artist and photographer whose creative passions bring her closer…

43 Years

close up of swan wing

I was 43 before I saw swans in flight I was born      raised I loved was loved      am loved I carried life in my swollen belly           in my grateful arms I saw my parents face time with grace      and without grace I have painted…

Elegy

Halfway down a plunging hill, out on a point at Sunshine, Dora Shepard’s sparkling house, foursquare, white, the finest kind, looks across the Thorofare. From this house, on clear days, you’d see sails, shoals, lobster boats, then blue-green water, all the way over to…