Dear Mr. Frost
by Danny Stone
Can’t believe it.
Won’t believe that a lady,
A doctor of the English language,
Read “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
And said it was about suicide.
This lady, in an attempt to wave her degrees high,
Then lectured on how she hated your work
Because it was too simple for her big brain.
Got to say though,
No matter how qualified that lady is,
She has miles to go before she wakes,
And Miles To Go Before She Wakes.
Intentions
by Stephen Boyd
You do not know anything about me
and yet here you are,
Reading my thoughts on a page.
This could be my greatest work.
Am I mysterious? What is the theme?
I am speaking to you. Not in the way man reads
the Bible
and claims Jesus spoke to him
and him alone.
No, Jesus spoke to many people,
but not to you, sir. To your mind, to the minds of many;
my thoughts will become yours
and you will remember them
if I have done my work correctly.
Quite a bit of power I have.
Untitled
by Joel Terragnoli
In lieu of thought
we copy,
rehearsed lines,
become truth.
but nonetheless,
wholly uninteresting.
cause and effect
push and pull
give,
but not take.
Minds filling
with empty clutter
and yet
amidst this arranging,
straightening,
we find time
for
brief sleep.
the poem as craft
Marina Blitshteyn
like the kind of people who
make origami
sit at a table and hypothesize:
I’m gonna make a bird today.
and they take out a crisp piece of paper
(nothing stained) hands
folded until they take an edge
and bend it back,
take another side
forward
slap the thing hard
against a flat surface
to make it flat
until they stare holes into it
assigning shape
making layers
or something that never flies.
or like when a carpenter
(if I may use a little jesus)
takes his blade
to carve his own initials on a chair-leg
wood harder than his
firm erect ego, which is to say
my skill is in this
my line of grace, look
mine
open work
where many a great man
will sit
and feast
or jerk off in a corner
or fold his small sheets of paper
cutting a space in the
frail bird’s breast
for his holy name.
