People you know & people who know people you know. learn more
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 Carl Kopman
My dog looks up at me expectantly
carrying her leash in her mouth.
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 Barbara Ridley
My social media feeds were full of calls to “Boycott Alabama!” “Leave!” “Never go there!” Andy Borowitz, one of my favorite political humorists, posted: “Americans given new reason never to go to Alabama.” I saw lots of Likes and Ha-Ha emojis. And then disparaging comments along the lines of: “Stop writing insults about Alabama; they’re 50th in education. They can’t read that shit.” More ha-ha’s.
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 Peggy Phillips
You know how they say that some people start to look like their dogs, or maybe it’s vice versa, that the dogs look like their owners? There was once a whole advertising campaign for dog food, I think, showing dogs and their owners almost looking like twins. You know what I mean; the tall, thin woman with lanky long hair and her afghan hound, the small woman with short blond, curly hair, lots of jewelry, and her blond toy poodle with its rhinestone collar and maybe a fur coat, Winston Churchill and a bull dog. I think you get the idea.
By Norman Tuck
I was 22 when I left Florida for New York. It was September of 1967. I fit my tools and my clothes into an MGB to follow Interstate 95 north and then east through the Holland Tunnel toward a new life.