Sunday Afternoon as Oil Pours into the Gulf
By Elliott batTzedekAcross a small suburban lawn
a very large man is riding
a very large tractor mower
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Elliott batTzedekAcross a small suburban lawn
a very large man is riding
a very large tractor mower
By Marie-Elizabeth MaliPulling out of Union Square station, the subway
sounds the first three notes of There's a place for us,
somewhere a place for us. A woman sits on me, shoves
By Kim RobertsWheels, whisks, wishbones,
silhouette of a tiny pine.
Birds in flight and fiddlehead ferns.
By Yvette Neisser MorenoSo this is how they decided to take him—
at the end of his life,
his frame shrunken, his wild rambling days over
By Patricia MonaghanAfter the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
By Tiffany HigginsI shall build a city upon a hill
and upon a hill and upon a hill and upon a hill
I am a little shepherd piping low
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 Chris AugustAmerica, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?
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.