Category: WTP spotlight: poetry

From WTP Vol. VI #6 Meridian By stephanie roberts tonight there are the works, a super harvest moon, a low canoe in the gone, a rainbow sail catamaran drives to dusk, as a meteor dashes in the sky. the word meridian falls through the mind, like henry the eighth’s, bright exhalation in the evening. i…

From Vol. VI #6 Missing By Dina Elenbogen Blame it on the brutal winter tomatoes still not ripe enough to pick her mother at work all day    sometimes missing until midnight     Now she’s gone missing  15  black   last seen on her bike   no helmet wanting to go anywhere except where…

From WTP Vol. VI #6 Enigmas of Weeding By Robert B. Shaw Wading into my garden’s anarchy, I see it little matters where I start. The rubber kneeling pad I have with me, the slender, pointed trowel can’t do their part till I, as sponsoring intelligence, decide what needs to go from this small jungle.…

From WTP Vol. VI #5 Thank the Wind Alive By Douglas Cole I tell stories to nothing but the walls, and the photographs are floating away. The old ones said that three’s a crowd, and I got used to thinking that way, figured there was a bad vein inside me, silent kid just observing at…

From WTP Vol. VI #5 Last Dispatch After Partial Resection By AR Dugan I try not to imagine / your real color / when they removed pieces of you / carefully, trying not to wake me. / I can’t help but think of you, / now and forever. / It would be easier if you…

From WTP Vol. VI #4 SONNETS TO ORPHEUS, Part One, 14 Rainer Maria Rilke Translation by Art Beck We’re companions to the flower, the vine leaf, the fruit. They don’t just speak the changing language of the seasons. But a multi-colored revelation that climbs from darkness with a glint, perhaps, of the envy of the dead…

From WTP Vol. VI #4 Hydrangea By Wally Swist These deciduous plants adorn the lawns on which they lavish panicles, large white flowerheads, growing among spear-shaped evergreen leaves. The bushes are as showy as their flowers that are often thought to resemble pom-poms. Every spring and summer, I observe their enormous blossoms bob among their…

From WTP Vol. VI #3 At Night-Point By Michele Leavitt In recent dreams, I weed the night by touch, yanking limp grasses, tossing amputated limbs into the slop bucket’s shame. Now, a different kind of morning: balancing on the fallen hemlock, running my fingers on an angle of barkridge grown thick, resistant to decay and…

From WTP Vol. VI #3 The Clutch By stephanie roberts Headphoned, he pushed the mower following the game couch pleasure held in abeyance to the knuckle-crack of rain. Duty pitched delight in clover levelled—carpet and diamond centerpiece to her garden’s linden-day fragrance of rose and vine. Today, she eyed him from the deck, but preferred…

From WTP Vol. VI #3 God Does His Own Laundry By Joshua Jones Because heaven has no Sears, no Tide— for God’s sake—no running water, His garments must be washed by hand, a tricky venture at first, one doctor of the church has observed in his magnum opus De Sarto Dei, because His hands have…

From WTP Vol. VI #2 Look, Little Brother By Clodagh Beresford Dunne                              Rudimentary kangaroos                                                   on bent…

From WTP Vol. VI #2 Mockingbird By Susan Dworski Nusbaum Under the bronze Buddha’s eye, too many cellphone-talkers, crowds at the koi pond. Hurrying from the Botanical Gardens, I’m stunned by the song of a plump grey bird perched on a palm branch, trilling a nigun like a cantorial soloist. Catching his bead of eye,…