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By Carl Kopman
I keep my time with old things these days, poems and stories, diaries and journals, photographs and a lampshade; a rescued trove of writing held to the worn and fading light of journey and memory and another day; the chaos of a crazier mind, the energy of taxi cab dreams, the callings of a younger man, fishermen off the Albion shore.
By Kathy Moore
First Two Chapters from the children’s chapter book Blue Bolt: The Adventure Begins
By Carl Kopman
When you ask me how to do it
How to make it make sense
Break the words in a Poem
So as to make them less dense
By Mardith Loiusell
Temper
By Carl Kopman
By Karen Hunt
Thanksgiving 1988
By Carl Kopman
Prelude
To A
Mendocino
Suite
By Carl Kopman
While searching for the mortuary box containing Robert Levin’s ashes in the basement of my Berkeley home I found in an anonymous old carton, amongst other things, a poem I’d written back in my day, Gypsy No Eyes!
By Raleigh Ellisen
As she did every summer day Mitoyo prepared a cup of tea and a few crackers when Koichi returned from his long hours as a railway dispatcher. They talked about events of their day, and, while neither mentioned it, they hid their disappointment that there was no letter from their son Kenji. After his tea Koichi took one cigarette from a pack, carefully placed it in his shirt pocket, and started on his long evening walk.
By Martina Reaves
I wandered from my second-floor office down to Fourth Street to indulge myself after a particularly difficult afternoon. Even though it was February, the afternoon sun blazed, the air was still, and the sidewalks were crowded with folks pretending it was spring.