A Poem by Hazel Anna Rogers
I wake, open, Into the arms of the gentle night. Not yet do the silhouettes of naked boughs Charm the light, Nor has the soft chatter of sharp beaks Set […]
This. That. Bric-a-brac.
I wake, open, Into the arms of the gentle night. Not yet do the silhouettes of naked boughs Charm the light, Nor has the soft chatter of sharp beaks Set […]
by Carl Kruse My friend Monica’s mom ended her life following years of chronic pain and Monica penned this poem for her. At first I thought Monica had not titled […]
By Fraser Hibbitt There is something lovable in the cursory brain. I had read Virginia Woolf describing the poet, Coleridge, as ravenously talking for hours on end about anything his […]
Here are some poems from my friend Otho Campbell. As he did not title them, I follow the way Emily Dickinson poems are labelled, which is to say by the […]