No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
We were in a tiny cottage filled with witchy things: crystals, voodoo dolls, dream catchers, Ganesha, Mother Mary, chakra charts, black magic signs, happy buddhas, laughing buddhas, fat buddhas, skinny buddhas, buddhas with no hands, buddhas with one hand in prayer.
Oh, but how easy it is to turn your eyes for a moment and set your course in a direction not intended.
Patrick knows that Iris knows and Celia knows that Iris has told Gibb but no one told Patrick that Gibb knows so Gibb has to pretend he doesn't know a thing.
Make a glad noise; it is
spring. Up from the snow the crocus has
sprung, fresh from its rubbery root; it
bends back its head and opens its mouth
to hallelujah sing.
Basically I’m trying to get all the poems out of my “teeming” brain before I die.
Her grace, deportment, and posture were the sensation of Vivan Rutenbeck High School. At the twelfth grade talent show she walked back and forth across the stage three times balancing all seven volumes of “Remembrance of Things Past” on her head.