Jean-Paul Sartre Was Right
A stranger has been following me. I see him every morning standing at the back of the bus. He waits …
Previous articles
The Weight
The chosen few can pass this night of gales floating in the intimacy of friends and fine ideas. While we …
Summer’s End
Our memories, once so sharp and short, now litter the landscape with the bones of our hopes. It is …
The Wind
The shooshing of the wind late at night, in darkness after moonset, is not a civilized sound. I sit under the maple, …
Off Road Crisis
I am in Virginia, it is spring, dandelions blanket the hill, unlike home where winters gray pall still holds sway. …
A Lover’s Quarrel with the World*
It is too early to take a nap. His daily trip to town put off for now, he must …
The Web
This morning where beam meets post on the porch the barn spider has spun his concentric polygons, a trap wired …
One Winter Morning
It occurs to him the seasons left are now countable, a comprehendible number. Fifty eight winters have passed. This one …
The Miracle, poem by Charles Bukowski
Thanks to Bukowski on Wry…
Poet of the Day…Hayden Carruth
California For Adrienne Rich To come again into the place of revolutionary thought after years in the wilderness of complacency …
Poetry on the run 