The Dogs and I Walked Our Woods,
By Gretchen Primackand there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Gretchen Primackand there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink
By Sheila BlackSheila Black reads "My Mission is to Surprise & Delight" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
My daughter works in the Apple Store--the Help Center, open 24-7,
people from all fifty states, angry because their iPhones
malfunctioned or they don't know how to program their data
By Gretchen PrimackThis is the press of the earth. One star hanging
there, honking like a goose. The lake
a smudge of black juice, the hill a draped
By Samiya BashirBrother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
By Sheila BlackThe brace was metal, and it fastened around the ankles.
Outside in the street there was the beggar with elephantiasis; there was
the leper, the neighbor with eyes milky blind,
By Camille T. DungyThe poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
By Camille T. DungyPause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.
By Lori DesrosiersI was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.
By Martha Collinsnot as in pin, the kind that keeps the wheels
turning, and not the strip of land that marks
the border between two fields. unrelated