Poem: Looking for Robert Frost

Jan 29, 2014
Jose Alcantara

The light in the desert comes on slowly

as though we need to prepare for it

or as though it is a gift given grudgingly.

At other times the edge of the world

begins in a blaze brighter than anything

we deserve. Last night I dreamt my father died

as we tried to find where Robert Frost wrote.

We were headed to a beach shack

on the other side of a concrete canal

when he jumped, trying to swim beyond

the surge that flowed toward land

as though Frost wrote with the power

Poem: My Mother's Things

Dec 29, 2013
Valerie Haugen

My mother's things...

in the very last of the death boxes:

umpteen beautiful crystal bottles filled

with exotic perfumes from foreign lands,

pounds of barbaric jewelry, ancient bones and stones.

A jug full of bells.

A jug full of bells...

some of them tongueless, voiceless.

Poetry...even a book of poetry- the poet being an old, dead lover

of my mother Wild Honey.

The belt she made at camp when she was fourteen.

My second grade report card...

Poem: Time Machine

Nov 5, 2013
Marjorie DeLuca

In the hours between dog and hyena,
they still serve lunch to a certain crowd.

He toddles in with his baggage:
a cane an oxygen tank a man-purse

an ample wife and her sister leading the way.
The machine that was the man is now

rusting, teeth rounded off the gears of time.
They take their time, as time is

all they have left, and with much animus
and screeching of sliding chairs

the women choose a table to our side.
He is not there. I am not here.

I know this man. Years of
running a business,

Poem: The Sayings of Twilight Jesus

Oct 9, 2013


Twilight Jesus was looking for a little home to add another notch in time. He was traveling by his soul, deep in his bones, to the wilderness of freedom. "I wait here where the band is tuning up. I love the music; it washes through me, my water. "

He had the spirit of a hummingbird, radiating or reflecting illumination. " But hey, sometimes the only joy that leaps toward me is the joy of grief. I can't get God to talk to me, not knowing has to be good enough. Praise the night, the dreams that safely cradle you."