Tag: folded word

Subscribe to our 2019 Chap/book Series

compilation of book covers

Help us explore the world this year.

Naw’leans Revisited

typewriter lit by neon

It was a return trip, a bucket list type of thing. My memories had faded of this city, home of a favorite author, full of amazing architecture and wonderful food. A steamboat sung and paddled on the Mississippi, memories of the riverbank quickly replaced…

new moon, old ways

abstract of sunrise

six minutes after dawn to the west of moonset in rolling Pennsylvania hills a full moon eclipses in the east where sunrise burns red setting daughter passes rising mother paths cross coming and going un-blue-moon drops from jet ink heights through blazing white light…

Fireweed

Equinox Series graphic

You never notice it until the middle of summer, when the magenta flower-spikes suddenly crowd every roadside and wasteland…once they have outgrown grass and nettles, and stand tall above the lesser whites and yellows of daisies, dandelions, clovers. In Britain we call it rosebay…

skunk trails…

Equinox Series graphic

accessible version for screen readers: skunk trails flash of lightning in the new year ©2019 by dt.haase A response to Folded Field Notes: Nocturnal dt.haase is a haiku poet, regular contributor to unFold, and a wanderer for wonder

Autumnal Shift

Equinox Series graphic

Flock of blackbirds moving over the house, silent as they almost always never are — heading south, one wing beat at a time. Leaving behind the September cries of the finches, (in French, no less — Vite! Vite! Vite! / Quick! Quick! Quick!); the…

snowfall…

Equinox Series graphic

accessible version for screen readers: snowfall — the white rabbit disappears ©2019 by dt.haase A response to Folded Field Notes : Silence dt.haase is a haiku poet, regular contributor to unFold, and a wanderer for wonder

Fossils

Equinox Series graphic

Out the back road of Charlestown, down a steep hill, across a disused railway, around a rough-brambled coastline and under the line of high tide: layers of grey mudstone, semi-eroded, open to the touch and tell their story. Some layers say little. Others retain…

heavy snow…

snow filling stone steps

accessible version for screen readers: heavy snow the sound of a man who loves his own voice ©2019 by Michael O’Brien Michael O’Brien lives in Glasgow Scotland. He is the author of, As Adam (UP Literature), Big Nothing (Bones) and The Anabasis of Man…

Four Leafed Clover

stylized overhead photo of a woodland trail

Three, they say, is the largest number you’ll never need to count. Your eyes decide the Threeness or Unthreeness of things at a glance, along with Twoness, Oneness, Zeroality. Fourness and everything above is different, except when patterned like the spots on ladybirds and…