I miss you, my friend.
Oliver called hospice the next day. The nurses came and went like ghosts…
The watchers started laughing in her head and she put her fingers to her temples.
The moon was slowly rising over the poster board horizon—its waxing gibbous a face turned away from their party.
For a woman who needs nursing care every few hours…It’s just too risky.
“What I wouldn’t give to see the ocean one more time before I die.”
Every day this week it was the same: two poems a day and Justine asleep in a half an hour.
Pain isn’t a wound we can stitch to a close…
She thought she would never see him again and shame burned her cheeks as she remembered their last encounter.
She reached out a shaky hand to pluck the book from the table…
Only one thing stops the destructive voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…
Why poetry? If you’ve experienced the power of a word, you’ve experienced the power of poetry.
What is poetry? A shot in some dark, a walk in some woods, a maker’s feel for the material at hand, an intuition of what is needed?
What is poetry? Any effort to define Poetry (with a capital “P”) in an exhaustive way is doomed to fall short. So why not offer a poet’s heresy.
The first step towards falling in love, of course, is the cultivation of friendship. And so I have to convince my students that poetry—and the poets who write them—are friends worth getting to know.
Poetry is, of course, art put into lines.
Lately, I’ve been writing hard, more professionally than years past, which means also a bit more mechanically. Some words are needed, so I crank them out. GoodWordEditing is one of my few places where I can still play. Play is so important. I’ve thought of posts I could write this week: about the 22-30 rule […]