PONDEROSA PINE
By Liza SparksWhen a ponderosa pine
is over one hundred—
it sheds a layer of bark.
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Liza SparksWhen a ponderosa pine
is over one hundred—
it sheds a layer of bark.
By Emily K. MichaelThe speed reading class for seventh graders
slumped over tight columns of text spread flat
on tables in the library where in her half-glasses
By Juan J. MoralesLike two hands pressed
together, they are twice as large
on the island. One feeds
By Dasha Kelly HamiltonPaintball pellets batter shoulders
and thighs at 190 miles per hour
I count the purplish bruises and
smile at the post vision of us toasting
By Kimberly BlaeserScientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
By Tamiko BeyerDear child of the near future,
here is what I know—hawks
soar on the updraft and sparrows always
return to the seed source until they spot
By Naomi Ortizbase booms opposite my scooter
rattles
I am obstruction
By Nathan SpoonYou are living inside the cup of another life. Water
is running slowly. Somewhere a hand is overflowing
with the abundance and celebration denizens dream of.