Marge Piercy I have a friend who when she comes out here to our funky house dug into the hill side in the pine…
Marge Piercy Some people collect grudges like stamps or rare coins. They take out their prize holdings to polish till they glow. But after…
Last Swim I wade through breast high water waves breaking their white suds in my face, the outglide pulling at my shins, sand slipsliding…
Marge Piercy We have grown too many tomatoes. At first it was a blessing after the lack last summer, tomatoes in July even. But the…
Rae Rose Skinny as tree limbs, we began to grow curves as if we were turning into musical instruments. We hid our mandolin hips…
Rae Rose The neighbor would bring his horse to our pipe corral, and I would hide under the almond tree. I knew it should…
Kate Harding I anchor between the piano and desk, watch my grandmother edge her Buick to the curb. In her stylish wool suit, a…
Kate Harding for my mother Inside the Rialto movie theater the little usher, in her maroon uniform lights the aisle for a man carrying…
Helene Pilibosian with the paint-logged lore of Paul Klee’s canvas circle, the Bauhaus news reviewed on a pink and orange face named Senecio, the…
Helene Pilibosian The moon erases any wince scribbled on my face without a sour word to undefine what has been defined. Humanity likes to…
David Bruckshaw Campbell Everything went black. Sean clutched the steering wheel and almost jammed the brake pedal through the rusted floorboard of his aging…
David Bruckshaw Campbell “My words are lies,” he once said. “In fact I’m lying now.” so he chose guitar for his voice and with…
Pablo Neruda translation by Mireya Cerda El padre brusco vuelve de sus trenes: reconocimos en la noche el pito de la locomotora perforando la lluvia…
Mahnaz Badihian می ترسم از صدای پوسیده ی خدایشان از صدای اله اکبر بر سر مناره ها بالای برجهای سه گانه ودرجاده های…
D.H.R. Fishman Poor Uncle Moon had to sneak the plastic champagne glass and its illicit contents – not Dom Perignon, but drinkable – into…
Olga Garcia Macuilxochitzin Macuilxochitzin garra sobre la piedra claws grasping stones tu plumaje de quetzal your quetzal feathers en el asfalto on the asphalt…
Veronica Golos Because poems are, after all, dialogues between the song of man and the silences of God… – Jorie Graham, American Poet…
Veronica Golos I am working under the voices of fire. – Shareef Sarhan, Gaza I was working under the voices of fire. I…
E.B. White One summer, along about 1904, my father rented a camp on a lake in Maine and took us all there for…
R.T. Sedgwick oranges and lemons, oranges and lemons market square filling with faces just off the waiting train a light rain graces impressions apples…
R.T. Sedgwick It’s another Wednesday evening at Peet’s Coffee & Tea just off Palomar Airport Road— four poets huddle sipping green teas mocha Freddos…
Living and Re-Living Al Andalus: Book Review of Shadab Zeest Hashmi’s, Baker of Tarifa, by Sam Hamod Shadab Zeest Hashmi’s book of poems, Baker of…