- Connect with authors, artists & friends!
- Discover new writing & art!
- Meet & support authors & artists.
- Be entertained. Be entertaining.
Poem of the Week
if people were really ‘like’ that
before I wondered I would ponder……stare into space and lie still as time
and think into worm holes through years what will I do when I wear grown-up skin
how will I ever get out of my head how would I do all that shit
and fantastic wonder set in………
as if I could fly and wake God I grew in spurts
yearned for sky and some strange land beyond the four block radius
I tangled myself in the child
wrapping and cording myself into her hair
like spun gold
and opened from that cocoon a babe
my head formed a knot
I refused to pry myself from the thought of death
since it was blazed into
and inside me
I longed for a poltergeist a night without end yet I awoke again
obsessing over things like
the color of our flatware
or the proper photo for our Christmas card
placed the wonder in the to-do draw and instead listened to mindless trivia in my head
while others tasted of the wine and ate of the apple I fast forwarded into general malaise
and decided to open a book a child’s book of poems she reads-she lives
and thought the world should know better than to close a book
I pried open a crevice in my head lonely as dust and age
felt wildly safe there in the dark
with the books, a shall….a limp that came with a cane
and still this all came in a heartbeat while I was just lookin up at the stars
in mere wonder……..
Story of the Week
The drone of rubber carving asphalt was always a kind of vagabond lullaby to Rick Dalrymple. From Louisville to Chattanooga, Harrisburg to Altoona, or Potomac to Raleigh, it didn't matter much what the destination was, he just let the melody of nomadic friction do it’s job. But today was different, he couldn't drift off, his veteran gaze lost in the blur of highway signs and sprawling foliage that zipped past his window like fast-moving slides of a traveler’s regret. He was headed to his home park in Syracuse.
Next to him on the bus sat Josh Boone, a five-tool centerfielder with a body engineered by genetics, supplements, and an overbearing, weekend father. He was 22 and on doorstep of The Show, his stay in Triple A will be short-lived. Rick liked the kid, thought he was humble, respectful of the game, and dedicated. A future all-star if everything played out right. He also liked that the kid called him Rickdiculous whenever he got a huge strikeout late in a close game. They recently began to sit together on road trips, the young assassin and the rusty revolver, two ballplayers at the dawn and dusk of their careers.
“Tell me about Henry Harper. Skip said you faced him once years ago but I had to get the story from you. Give me the scoop.”