Credo
By Poetry Issue 89
Like prayer __________I come from eternity Why did I have to leave? Above all _________why do I have to go back? It’s really nice here in the countryside An incoherent sentence in this discourse that _________________ goes on without end Blurred parenthesis ________________ between all and nothing Tablet without salvation __________________ faithful reverse whirlwind…
Read MoreJust Time
By Poetry Issue 86
It’s just time, the book I read, the letter I write, the window I look out of. It’s just a needle I thread, a sleeve I keep trying to mend, the spool diminishing. It’s just time inside of time, the future inside the seeds inside the pulp of the apple I eat, skin and all,…
Read MoreI Loved You Before I Was Born
By Poetry Issue 86
I loved you before I was born. It doesn’t make sense, I know. I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see. And I’ve lived longing for your every look ever since. That longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed. And the longing grows as this body…
Read MoreDon’t beckon yet!…
By Poetry Issue 65
Through the gates of eternity I’ll ride On a grasshopper huge and green. ————————–—Egils Plaudis don’t beckon yet! I don’t yet want to ride to you on the back of a huge grasshopper I still want to linger here among various earthly substances still want to see how the wind sweeps away slogan after slogan…
Read MoreBuried Treasure
By Poetry Issue 65
Farther away the closer it gets, time outwits science. This fossil is how many millions of years old? The same age as my pain. Love laughs at swagger, men sleepless over their calculators. The invisible enemy decks himself out to keep me from saying what makes me eternal: O world! I’ve loved you ever since…
Read MorePixelated Glories: The Graphic Excursions of Kathy T. Hettinga
By Essay Issue 66
DESIGN IS ubiquitous. Design in its graphic manifestations is, well, frankly overwhelming. Streams of printed ephemera constantly assault us, from cherished journals, to the slumping pile of unread newspapers shoved behind an easy chair in the corner, to the blur of billboards, fliers, bulletins, and posters cluttering our horizon. The democracy of digital invention compounds…
Read MoreAnd I Will Look for You in Fields of Poppies
By Poetry Issue 85
Paul Shaw breeds insomniac flies. He tilts test tubes at unstable angles, then watches wide-eyed as the flies inside go haywire. Thousands of flies fly inside Paul’s hypotheses; thousands of flies defy them. As fast as he identifies a pattern, the field of sleep expands. Paul celebrated tenure in October, and all the Shaws flew…
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