Today’s choice
Previous poems
Stephen C. Curro
calm river
again, his fishing line
caught on a tree
*
raindrops slide
down the window
death in the family
*
thick clouds
snowflakes dot
my dog’s fur
*
breaking clouds
flower petals pasted
to my windshield
*
Christmas dinner
with Mom’s new boyfriend
empty wine glass
*
scent of sage
desert clay disturbed
by footprints
Stephen C. Curro lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, USA, where he works as an educator. His fiction and poetry have appeared with Acorn, Scifaikuest, and Factor Four Magazine, among other venues. When he isn’t writing or working, he’s most likely reading a good book or watching bad monster movies. You can read more of his work at www.stephenccurro.com
Sandra Noel
The tide unpleats from her godet,
zig-zags in running stitch
round the base of the côtil.
Matthew Caley
supposedly: if I am to render
‘a man’ then
this ‘man’ must I guess resemble me‹›
Jenny Robb
The nun in charge of the children is thin, her back straight as punishment.
Ken Evans
You try doing star-jumps, steps,
or squats, in knee-high wellies.
Joe Williams
I was born in a town of shadows.
Anne Symons
She was only a little woman
five feet nothing in nylon stockings.
‘If I stood sideways they’d mark me absent.’
Ben
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges.
Dragana Lazici
the days are long but the years are short.
seconds are tiny kitchen knives in my back.
i stopped reading Dickinson, her voice is a sad parrot.
Abigail Ottley
Faces, unless they come swimming up close. are a blur of piggy-pink and ice-
cream. In the street, she doesn’t know, cannot be certain when to smile, when to
look away