Autumn, New York, 1999
By Patricia Spears JonesAnd I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Patricia Spears JonesAnd I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
By Jeff GundyA good day for late wildflowers--daisies and burrs
leaned out into the path for a better view, brilliant
blue somethings with tiny blooms on tall stalks.
By Heather DavisThe lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Gregory PardloUnfinished, the road turns off the fill
from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow
the inland waterway.
By Jody BolzPages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
By Randall HortonThe gavel
The splintered body
The red-neck guards
By Philip MetresIn the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis
By Remica L. BinghamI enter to find all the students in uniform
occupying a small room.
By Martín EspadaIn the republic of poetry,
a train full of poets
rolls south in the rain
By A.B. Spellmanflorene barco moved
to philadelphia &
on a visit home