I would rather put a chainsaw to my legs Tips of branches turn yellow;needles float down as from heaven.My heaven is a redwood forest. I clear duff from the roof with a leaf blower,from the deck with a snow shovel,mounds upon mounds rumpling earthlike rough blankets and then always comes rain,a season of rot. Seems […]Read more "I would rather put a chainsaw to my legs"
Lesson Here’s where you work. On this table the chisels lie. Twenty-six. Some have grown blunt with the efforts of carvers before you. In time, tools fail. You work in stone. Cutting on the bias, you strike imperceptibly until something gives. Maybe the stone cries. Once there was lymph, slightly aquamarine. On this bench rests […]Read more "Lesson"
The High Place How many winters gone And how many remain? I’ve seen seedlings Grow to be masts of great ships Felled by men with rum-warmed Bellies Into gentle beds of Evergreen boughs How many more times Will the tamarack fade into A golden amber bouquet That reminds me of the many Sorrows of being […]Read more "The High Place"
This is a Dove This is a dove, I think. I’ve never been good at bird identification. That’s funny, now that my job is picking up dead ones killed by the windmills’ spinning blades. There are 60 windmills in this “wind farm,” lots of dead birds. I think I might get a book. I mean, […]Read more "This is a Dove"
Stick-Me-Tights Embraced by weeds, I harvest boards. I’d rather embrace the young bride who will scrape a bungalow to build a mansion but this old fence, precious like barn wood, weathered yet strong, they’ll use for decor, perhaps the front door. Decades ago in a rougher town I set these posts, nailed these planks for […]Read more "Stick-Me-Tights"
I’ll be your blood, your taste, your touch In my head I hold a mental map of all the pipes beneath these streets because I laid them there and in my fingers, spark of all the wires on those poles because I strung them there and in my muscle, lift of lumber — stud, joist, […]Read more "I’ll be your blood, your taste, your touch"
Thomas Broderick is a freelance writer living in Northern California. He is a member of SFWA and the author of 19 published short stories. In All Her Volumes Vast The hunters, separated by 50,000 years in time and light, awoke early. For one, that meant rising before the sun in his tribe’s ancestral cave that […]Read more "In All Her Volumes Vast"
Peter Crowley is an independent writer and scholar with a M.S. in Conflict Resolution, Global Studies from Northeastern University. He works as Content Specialist/Production Coordinator for a prominent library science company. For fun, he plays in bluesy rock band around the Boston/NYC area. His writings can be found in Boston Literary Magazine, Mondoweiss, Mint Press News, […]Read more "Those who hold up the earth"
Clyde Kessler, poet and naturalist, lives in Radford, VA with his wife Kendall and their son Alan. Several years ago they added an art studio to their home and named it Towhee Hill. His latest book of poems, Fiddling at Midnight’s Farmhouse (Cedar Creek Publishing), was illustrated by his wife, Kendall Kessler. Smuggling Butterflies Sunrise […]Read more "Smuggling Butterflies"
In the Shadow of the Bell Tower After Ralph Waldo Emerson I seek refuge from the ferocious sun, this unpredictable, unbreakable humidity, on a cool stone bench with engraved words to trace with fingertips. To fill the hour… You walk by with sweat on your cheeks. I nod to the space next to me. You […]Read more "In the Shadow of the Bell Tower"