Loss is an art, traversing one world to the next
By Purvi ShahThe mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Purvi ShahThe mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Joseph RossIn a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
By Joseph O. Legaspislides down into my body, soft
lambs wool, what everybody
in school is wearing, and for me
By Holly BassWhat is a furious dance?
It is not polite.
Does not shuck and jive or shuffle along.
By Kenneth Carrollwho will come to tell us what we know
that the king’s clothes are soiled with
the history of our blood and sweat
By Philip MetresIn the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis
By David KeplingerLincoln, leaving Springfield, 1861,
Boards a train with a salute: but it is weak.
To correct it, he slides his hand away