Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By sam saxsometimes i wonder what happens to people’s hands when they disappear
in their pockets. of course, my rational brain knows they go on being hands
but there’s still the question. i wonder if object permanence isn’t the biggest
trick of them all, a scam, a way to ground the brain in its thin bath of liquid
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By Ely ShipleyThe neck of the guitar stretches
out, every other fret painted with a sharp
dot or dash, flash after flash
of reflected light, marble or pearl, the shape
of a fingerprint, ...
By Patrick RosalThe teacher can’t hear the children
over all this monsoon racket,
all the zillion spoons whacking
the rusty roofs, all the wicked tin streams
flipping full-grown bucks off their hooves.
By M. F. Simone RobertsBegin with da Vinci’s hybrid
of spring and top, of wood and iron,
and completely non-aerodynamic,
then crystallize the blue of the lagoon
By Ella Jaya Sranto the screams.
to the glass-shattering pleas for life
that no one but they can hear.
to the wooden desks that were my sanctuary
By Jonathan MendozaExample: I place my hand in a pool of salt.
Some stays. Some seeps into my skin.
Everything goes exactly where it’s supposed to.
By M. Soledad CaballeroHe says, they will not take us.
They want the ones who love
another god, the ones whose
joy comes with five prayers and
By Jeanann VerleeIn a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
in parts.
By Sharon OldsThey put roofs over our heads.
Ours was made of bent tiles,
so the edge of the roof had a broken look,