Anthony Bourdain has taken his own life.
Boston Review Editors resign over Díaz.
Oops! Royalties sifted from Donadio & Olson.
Philip Roth is gone at 85. His impact on literature.
Tom Wolfe has died at 88.
The Cockygate saga.
Pages Menu
TwitterRssFacebook
Categories Menu

Dark Rum & Tonic

by Molly Fisk

Sometimes what you need is a road / house, blast of laughter and warm air pouring / out the door, where the waitresses know / your name but the customers don’t

Read More

A Capitalist Back to Nature

by Robert S. King

Here is the last forest that has never / heard the crisp snap of a dollar / or a siren louder than a crow. / Here the wind does not honor / the borders of a deed.

Read More

Five by Perchik

by Simon Perchik

This dirt still mimics sweat / lies down alongside, unsure / your lips would quiet it / though the finger that is familiar / probably is yours –could be enough

Read More

Letter to Francisco

by Mark Ramirez

I wonder what it feels like to die; to feel the rhythm of your body / fall to rest as you watch your final breath dissipate, / to speak only through dreams and the grainy film of memory.

Read More

Weeding

by Art Nahill

Kneeling amidst / the camellias, roses / culling the self / sown from the cultivated / the disdained / from the highly-regarded / I’m reminded / how circumstance / defines us

Read More

Red Apple

by Rustin Larson

I soak my sleeve in water just to foul things up a bit, / Create a small level of misery, to keep the defense / Honest.

Read More

Five Poems

by Simon Perchik

Though it’s familiar this flower / doesn’t recognize the breeze / wriggling out the ground / as that distance without any footsteps

Read More

Precision

by Carol Hamilton

Scarlatti’s sheet music lies / on the floor near the piano / and a catalog for later perusal / is sprawled in full color / near the computer.

Read More

Death Poems

by Laura Madeline Wiseman

I don’t know why death wants me or why death wakes me to press her bones against my backside. The ringing is incessant now. She has to know this.

Read More

Eyes of the Day

by Tim Craven

I recall as kids when our obsession would / lead us into the thick backwoods / next to the decommissioned railway / line, our pockets stuffed with ribbons

Read More
Page 3 of 512345

Sign up for our irregular newsletter and be informed of upcoming contests. You can opt out anytime with the click of a button.

The Lascaux Prize in Poetry contest is presently open for submission. Visit the Contests Page for information.

Anthologies
Medallions

submit