An echo in the openness in the empty field in my hollow chest in my barren breath Coldness. Along the horizon, fire flushes, but it’s not here, not yet. In the stillness,
I am awake wondering why both love and anger burn, and why Icarus fell into the sea for the Sun. My soul reaches out into the forge, an unconditional death grip on a
There you are just standing around, Hands in your pockets, eyes on the ground As if they hammered you to what could’ve been A matchless heat, a bosom friend. Open wounds pierced
Dedicated to my brother David who refused to give up on God, even when God Himself didn’t seem to care, and who is now joyfully married and on his way to the
An echo in the openness in the empty field in my hollow chest in my barren breath Coldness. Along the horizon, fire flushes, but it’s not here not yet. In the stillness,
I accepted the risk of winter. I treaded through frostbitten words that numbed my face and burned my ears. I tripped on trust, broke ice three years thick. I dropped below zero, my
Childhood is but a flurry Glitter, winks in sunlight beams, flung onto carpeted floor after PB&J lunches. Bubbles, blown to each other's noses, bounce and burst on summer breezes. Hair, tossed
My hands quiver with a sense of thee Vanishing in the night, A feeling of longing only I know to be right. The swirling winds, they beckon me to Trace the leaves dispersed.
My shirt claws into the back of my neck and my pants pinch at my waist, folding and creasing the skin. Invisible spiders crawl into my ears and the glasses I always wear
I gaze up to the scorching sun, And it’s burning down upon The stones that lay so still and fragile Until the night is come. Not a whisper to be heard by
PSYCHO. CRAZY. DRAMATIC. people put labels on things they don’t understand. the tears trickle out of my eyes one by one. unbidden, unwanted, and not understood. the doctor tells me the pills
Dreams are the paths that we follow in life: They give us a purpose to plow through our strife. All seem star-spangled and end in the skies, But some lead downward and end
“Hush. The wind sings a hymn.” “Nonsense. The same wind, hot and thick and dry As wool in summer on my skin.” “Listen. No rush of river of gush of streams. Such gravity
“Just a job–” crackled imperfections Drain each day’s joy, Stealing every drop From the surface– The sorrows of this wasteland. “I don’t care–” parched hearts Plead for belonging, Begging for an
By Gloria Gustafson Nature retreats home Friends and flaming lights bring peace As Night takes its watch Gray curtains of sky Swing aside to stained glass panes with Dawn’s housekeeping Snowdrops bend
By Anna Huttar Tangled, twisted carpet, shreds of grass Folded together into clumps of death— The fodder for a raging appetite, A carcass for the prairie’s ravening crow. The hungry flames come,
Staring at the mirror, I see a slimy something wearing broken pieces of a rotten ribcage, calcified skin clinging to the curves and the grooves and the cracks. Flesh sags off the face
My eternal calling is an artist, And my life’s work goes mostly unnoticed. Maybe you’ll spot ink on my fingertips From my pen that carries songs from seasons, Scratching words soon
Who is my father to me? Old Chevy truck, jumbled toolbox, Knicks and knacks, garage full of sawdust. Peanut shells on the floor and shelves —endless Pringle cans of bent nails. Empty hook