He Was Beautiful by Ron Moore

When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.

Rehoboth Beach Memory 4/28/1982 by David R. Findley

Time to bathe al fresco watched by frosty stars and a crescent moon. I twist quickly for warmth beneath needle-like strands of hot water dispensed by an ancient showerhead, its shadow stretched...

Suitcase by Anne Dykers

In the end, you have no suitcase. The ticket is one-way only, very expensive, caro, precious. You arrive on the side of a hill which has dared to assert...

[POEM] Maybe It’s A Tin Ear by Tim Butterworth

Maybe it’s a tin ear for poetry. “Do unto others” didn’t balance like a see-saw when you heard it? You were playing with fire while others sang about whose...

[POEM] Drinking Weather by Gregory Luce

Sky perfect dull gray intermittent spits of rain not cold or warm and just enough wind to get inside a jacket and I have nothing to do and all the time in the...