Another year. Another millennium.
John Cantey Knight
Metairie, LA
The End of Writing
To peer
back into the fray
And then the skittish finch whose hieroglyphs
I track throught the blazing snow
is gone
Rochelle Hope Mehr
West Orange, NJ
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem
He spoke of the word,
a fox, full of wild odors,
surprising as a startled skunk
underfoot. And how
this other world strikes,
a bit of venom for the proferred wrist.
A love cry hangs
in this eternal after-instant.
Carol Hamilton
Midwest City, OK
December Dawn
The sun comes up,
reining a bleak wind.
Love is never enough.
Love is all there is.
Jeanne Shannon
Albuquerque, NM
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Only when I’m
writing do I
understand my mother:
that kind of
caring that
wants more for
something to be
than for itself
to continue.
Albert Huffstickler
Austin, TX
Coda
Three ticks
to midnight
the music
of her bones
Bart Solarcyzk
Pittsburgh, PA
morning glory buds
within darkness,
darkness within
Dorothy McLaughlin
Somerset, NJ
yooper winter--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
overnight clipper blow, morning white cover,
icy sculpted eaves, curving vanilla drifts,
chalky early morning paleness, soft smoothness,
like bare last spring road-kill skull.
T. Kilgore Splake
Calumet, MI
Any day
any
moment
now.
Cid Corman
Kyoto, Japan
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