Sometimes the mountainis hidden from me in veilsof cloud, sometimesI am hidden from the mountainin veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,when I forget or refuse to godown to the shore or a few yardsup the road, on a clear day,to reconfirmthat witnessing presence. Denise Levertov

The purpose of poetry

The purpose of poetry is to remind us   how difficult it is to remain just one person,   for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,   and invisible guests come in and out at will. from Ars Poetica? BY CZESLAW MILOSZ

What if …

What if you slept? What if you sleptAnd what ifIn your sleepYou dreamedAnd what ifIn your dreamYou went to heavenAnd there plucked a strange and beautiful flowerAnd what ifWhen you awokeYou had that flower in your handAh, what then? SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

A keepsake

Possibilities I prefer movies.I prefer cats.I prefer the oaks along the Warta.I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.I prefer myself liking peopleto myself loving mankind.I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.I prefer the color green.I prefer not to maintainthat reason is to blame for everything.I prefer exceptions.I prefer to leave early.I prefer…

Things to Think

Things to Think Think in ways you’ve never thought beforeIf the phone rings, think of it as carrying a messageLarger than anything you’ve ever heard,Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats. Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,Maybe wounded and deranged: or think that a mooseHas risen out of the lake, and…

A brief note on living –

The Well of Grief David Whyte Those who will not slip beneaththe still surface on the well of grief, turning down through its black waterto the place we cannot breathe, will never know the source from which we drink,the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering, the small round coins,thrown by…


Proximity by Karen Head The young possum foragingoutside my office windowseems unconcerned by my presence—after all, I’m the one who’s trapped.I snack on almonds, watchit nibble whatever it can find,and though I am inclined to share,I know that opening the windowwill change the world. Karen Head lives in Georgia, and possums seem to live all…

Darkness at Noon

Noon Hour BY PEGGY TROJAN Unless hot lunch at schoolwas serving something speciallike corn chowderand baking powder biscuitsor creamed chipped beefpotatoes and browniesI went hometo what mymother madelike most town kids Jack walked the furthestalmost to the riverto his unpainted houseby the railroad tracksWe all knew nobody was therehis mom at the tavern alreadyHe always…


December  On the fire escape, onestupid petunia still blooms,purple trumpet blowinghigh notes at the sky longafter the rest of the bandhas packed upand gone home. — Sarah Frelig

Passing Through

A short story of excellence, dedication and perseverance & of the joy and importance of meaning-making: Ted Kooser (1939) was the 13th Poet Laureate of the United States and received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 2005.