—for Rico   Our moon’s a prime example of less-is- more. Its slivered, crescent shine. Its mountains on the brim of light and dark. Risen...

and not because I’m pulled by the colour black. Actually, all the pigments combined will equal black. So it’s really just considering...

In those days, the plot was only as sharp as pointed lead. HB didn’t stand for Harcourt Brace— not yet,   and every yarn dependent on a...

You can thank Gavrilo for your existence. And this Serbian’s piercing shot. I should really give credit to his mother. Marija lost six  ...

With the most recent tabulations from the Department of Global Poetry, there are 685 billion, 278 million, 431 thousand, 294 poems about...

You noticed I bought a book by Eli Bartmann. His tome of Selected Poems. 88-hundred pages. Now there’s a man who’s humble,  remarking...

News sites have become a one-trick pony. My friend in California read The Big One’s Coming Soon— Here’s Why   causing her to toss her...

Can’t you hear the Atlantic? little Shelly asks, handing it to me as if in turn, a pearl that’s found beneath, the odds of one-in-three,...

We’ve been locked in an iterant eddy, a satellite that’s fused into its rhythm, a record that wheels forever, despite the ending of its...

I found myself remembering the day in kindergarten, when the teacher showed us Dumbo, and I realized for the first time that all the kids...

If life gives you lemons, don’t settle for lemonade. Make a mansion of meringue, wash it down with whisky sour.   I want to plunge a pie...

Day-twah is how you pronounced it, my ostentatious friend, as though the French were still infesting where the river worms and bends ;  ...

Come, and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastick toe —John Milton, from L'Allegro Surrounded by their chatter, we note we haven’t ...

With your hands wrist-deep in the black of loamy soil, you tell me your infant daughter died at break of dawn, on a day that our star...

It makes no sense at all that Keats and Yeats have never rhymed.   I don’t mean that each had never used   the form in poems,   I mean...

Hear this: a puffin is not a baby penguin, despite my decades of thinking it so.   I cannot be angry at the puffin, its countenance of...

there were no more birds in the trees—well, there were, but every finch and sparrow felt relief, no more voyeurs spying on their sunrise...

The answer to this question is yes or no.   That’s three words.   Everyone assumes the yes is most important, the...

This should be a love poem nowadays. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.   There’s surely hearts involved throughout the stanzas on...

I have to say I love you in 40 lines or less.   Space between the stanzas count as a line.   This is now my 10th—11th— fuck I am in...