Poet’s Corner Press


Catching The Autumn

by Lara Gularte I am tired of my own long story, my blouse stained with vignettes. The gold ring I lost can not be found, my china teapot stays broken. Familiar faces are stacked, piled high in snapshots. In this half-light of my life I will cook a soup of claws and spine. When my eyes fail I will eat more parsnips. My skin will become bleached wood, preserved by salt. I want no candy hearts or sticky adjectives, no flower ...


by Gary Short Some strings of light. Mostly absence. Out the window, trees, the narrow margin. The edges carved in new sun. I sway, stalled at the warm window. Out there the sweep of wings. Out there wind's tangle. I sway to the absence, a disappearance like hushed flight. Now the wind nods slack with sleep. In the tree outside my window, the scurry of wings like a preface to arrows. Latticed shadows of limbs weave a net of the day. The sway of the tree I depend on to summon me.

Spring Equinox

by Jane Blue first published in Poetry Now I feel peeled, coffin-ripped. The worms of night sated now. My spectacled eyes tender as incubated babes. Elms hang infant leaves like minuscule laundry. At a bus stop, a bird walks high in a tree's new fringe, pecking, sashaying up the limb skyward. It pauses to call "chip-chip" into the Morse-code morning. Soon, someone replies, "chip-chip." The bird saunters out on the attenuating branch, then steps into air. What soldier, what saint will I be in this new life?

Blue Prose

by Carol Frith First Published Tule Review Lawn chairs like lateral road maps-- the grass scans blue. I won't go out today. Bent light. Light like water spots. Nobody walks here anymore: three apricot trees and a peach. The leaves fill with blue, separate into blank space. Now, a man in blue grasses sits down on the lateral slats. Answers turn over in the middle distance. Think of the way a blue vein of light remembers itself. The man in blue glasses frowns in his lawn chair. He listens to me. I have a baker's dozen of blue words to offer: azure, ...

Solstice Greetings

by Julia Connor hold what you have loved firmly in mind what is bears also the tendency not to be bittersweet the salts reshuffle why not moisten the fingertip and write the beloved name in air right now

Ancestral Call

by Calder Lowe Rising above the steady snore of the purifier, a train whistle from the nearby tracks scoops away two metallic llamas and a solitary wooden elephant plodding along the tops of the bookshelves. In their absence, camels from a caravan in a painting, stumble, lose their footing in the sand. The cats paw at their reflections in the window. Time is restructured in that instant of misdirected sound. Count back one, two, three centuries. Train whistles, bugles, church bells thread through clouds. My ancestors blow glass in the Black Forest of Germany, carry Lafayette off the battlefield, make an error in judgement about a new boarder from the coal mine. Glass glows in the Von Eberhardt ...

Armory Square Hospital, 1863

by Joshua McKinney first published Tule Review Spring '01 Let the physician and the priest go home. -- Walt Whitman The young men haunt his days and nights within the whitewashed wards. At last a bliss though terrible. To those outside he writes, "...there is no time to lose, & death & anguish dissipate ceremony here between my lads and me." Without the cloak of poetry, he cures. He walks between the rows of beds, his energy unchecked. At last he is free to love. To give a gift, to dress a wound-- he feels the boys' needs as his own. ...

The New Main, S.F.

by Paula Sheil A man entered the space. Hair. Black. Soft. Moved down his back. All of his back. Moved when he moved. Kelp with the tide. Moved him or followed him. I. Like a tiny yellow fish darted into his hair. And out. No solid between us. Space only clarified my having him and letting go. Interrupted by concrete and glass. A man entered the space. Picture him naked on a white sheet. His skin the color of walnut oil. His fingers. Hidden. I wanted him. Suddenly. To never forget. A man entered the space. Not so many men are ...

To The Valley Fog

by Don Campbell Through the bedroom window You are there in the morning Filling every space with snow-like silence Fooling the northerner with your whiteness Covering the tops of trees and the roof line of tall buildings You soften every edge in town Drip off gutter corners into the streets Leaving a trail the cats avoid The valley surface thirsty from a long summer's drought Is glad for any water...even yours now dirty From the dust and grime you've trickled off The leaves and the stone walls The people are troubled because you break Their speed as they drive to work Hawks stay put ...

Visitation Rights of the Levee Builders

by William Barr In late April each man and his oldest son light the levee fires. The night bridges are floated from both sides and joined at the center. Throughout the night, I hear footraces, cheers, and the squeak of old nails in old wood. I smell crayfish, turnip pudding, cabbage, and I can almost taste the walnut prawns. No, I speak no Chinese at all but the laughter of the young men echoes into my morning prayer. When the old man finally speaks even the dogs are quiet. There is one final chorus, then their steps, their soft leaving steps. At dawn the levee ...


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