She held the book in her hands, completely overwhelmed with a mix of jubilation and disbelief. It was like a dream, but the book was very real, the cold, smooth feel of its beautiful hardcover against her palms. A poetry chapbook, nature themed, with the author’s name printed beneath the illustration of a tree by the riverside. Annemarie stared down at the name, reading it repeatedly while wiping away tears of joy. Her name. Her book. A collection of poems by Annemarie Wilder.

On that Christmas morning, he was alone in a small, dim apartment on the southern edge of Mill Avenue, about two miles from the sprawling, rose-hued buildings of Arizona State University. His second wife, Antonia, the Grinchette—mercurial and thirty—had left him in late August 1991, setting off on the last of the “hippie bus” lines, The Green Tortoise. A vintage, meandering bus would eventually bring her back to her parents’ rundown house in the otherwise upscale town where Hemingway was born. Soon after she left, he boxed up and shipped her remaining things.

Questioning
Prayers among hilltop oak and elm seek clarity from God. Do answers lie within my silent soul? Eyes spill tears at headlines from Gaza, Ukraine and Iran. Ideals no longer shine in leaders save for those with little sway. Might once-joyful children’s voices haunt men who order other men to kill? Could retribution’s prospect put their plans in disarray?

Since dawn Jesus has walked the streets
with different faces and portable PA’s
expounding on hell Jesus has nothing good to say
before the flowers come roll down the road on wheels
on floats made of roses and rice and lentils everything organic

It was day one in uncharted territory. The rules of the experiment were simple. He was to spend 30 days alone in a cabin in the woods without access to the outside world. If the man were to step outside of the cabin before the end of the 30th day, then the experiment would be deemed a failure, and he would go home with, at best, only a fraction of the money he was promised, depending on how long he could make it.

When I asked you why we did not happen, you told me that I was too romantic for you, that my chaos did not fit into the orderly compartments in your life.

Even now, when we talk sometimes – as friends – friends who laugh about what could have been, when you listen to me with more patience and interest than ever, I am surprised by how often I filter my stories of joy.

we are called to rise when our souls awaken
collapsing over the edge of an orange sun
moving through its own heat
we awake from the deep
blue hair mussed
we are called to rise beyond the blood of the blind

James was running on the treadmill in time to the quick tempo music blasting in his ears. He was interrupted by an incoming text that lit up his phone sitting in the machine cradle.
Hi, I’m coming to NYC this weekend. Dinner?
Maddy.

Youth often finds itself a casualty of unawareness. In some instances, where there might be gratitude for preadult ignorance, being poor isn’t fun, at any age. I grew up privileged. Some may find it more difficult to embrace having nothing, after having grown up without financial worries. Finding yourself without savings as a senior citizen, however, really blows.

Courageous Frida, icon to millions
who know no more of you than your eyebrows
on the t-shirts your face adorns,
what is your name worth now?

Nitin Gharpure eases his Mercedes along the curb in the alley behind the warehouse. At the end of the alley, a semi is going beep-beep-beep, backing into a loading ramp, aligning a forty-foot container to the dock. And behind that, delicate tendrils of pink are forming over the distant Oakland hills.

In two weeks’ time, I will depart,
and you will see me fading out the doorway,
disappearing from your time and space.

Nothing, no one ever leaves completely,
and so you will not see or hear but sense
the presence, the silence, the smile/frown

It was Tuesday afternoon, on what should have been just another day of service for the Customs Patrol.
Sergeant Baxter of Southern District Airport’s Customs and Vetting Division was nearly ready to wrap up his shift. It had been quiet, this one. He’d normally hit his quota by the first few hours, after which he could busy himself with paperwork or checking out for anyone else he could justify not letting in.

For years the school bus took the same path
past your grandmother’s house—just uphill from yours

each day the fields flickering past,
sometimes filled with corn,
autumn filled with hay bales

Bill Moyers left us on June 26 at the age of 91.[1] His declining health over the past few years, and now his death, have left us longing for more of what he gave so generously in life: insatiable curiosity, clarifying insight, empathy grounded in respect, courage tempered by humility, and optimism anchored in realism.
Because of his life’s work—and because his career spanned a remarkable era in mass communication, from the birth of television to the rise of the internet—we are fortunate to have an extraordinary archive of his spoken and written words. These will continue to inform, inspire, and challenge future generations.

My friend Alex was twelve years old when it happened. Years later, he told me it was like time had stopped the instant his father parked the car on top of the railroad tracks on Spring Street, pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them out the window. I’ve always imagined Alex, his mother, and his younger sister looking at each other in stunned silence as the father closed his eyes and calmly surrendered to the universe, which he believed had defeated him at every turn.

The wind blows fierce on the Isle of Rankor. It pushes in the waves, fast and rhythmic, until they wash upon the sands. Together, the forces carry ships into the harbor, which spans the coastline as intricate as a maze. At any given time, a hundred ships unload their imports and load exports with ease. This is the Isle’s tradition: wind and waves and trade, the tradition Caroline and Marina have grown up with all their lives.

You can’t handle the truth of X
and Y complexities in your own
species, so it’s obvious you think
you can tell our gender by the
colour of our breasts or know
that we are born all-brown.

Before I understood the weight of memory and the grace of healing, I had hands that reached, held, and learned. Now, when I look at my hands, I don’t recognize them. Not because they’ve changed, but because they’ve held so many lives—mine, my children’s, my grandchildren’s, my ailing Papa’s and Mama’s before they died, my brother’s, dear friend June’s, and adapted Daddy’s Sam’s before they too succumbed to illness. Through it all, my hands never once asked for rest.

As I age and tire of life, my child-self is insistently present. She has not faded with the passing of time; instead, I have a growing sense of quiet urgency—to know her more deeply and to comfort her.
That long-ago child was the middle of three daughters: her older sister, the favored child, too old to be a companion, and the younger too young. She was ignored by her parents. In a matter-of-fact way, she expected indifference and accommodated neglect. Paradoxically she also faced the brunt of their rage, prompted, they said, by her audacity and impertinence. She dreamed about leaving home.

As the fourth-born kid of five, like anyone from a big family, I grew up in an ensemble. We were spread enough in years that school kept us segregated by age, so we had two main gathering sites. The first was the dinner table, where the social task was to make a worthy offering to the highly opinionated conversation. Maybe there was no offering within reach, other family members being older and more experienced. Maybe you stood to underscore a point or fetched a dictionary to prove that “flaccid” is pronounced with a “k” in the middle or happened on a witty remark and sparked a few laughs or tried to vanish into the wallpaper to avoid negative attention.

The riot gate clangs behind me as I stride down the wide concrete hallway, nodding to passing officers and inmates. At a little over six feet tall and still carrying my fighting weight of 230 pounds, I know the inmates and even some of the newer officers find my size and demeanor intimidating. I try to soften my serious demeanor—bolstered by my icy-blue eyes and square jaw—by wearing my Yogi Bear tie with my usual black slacks and white dress shirt. My “uniform,” as my wife, Trula, calls it.

It was not the sort of story that could stay hidden in a small town. People in Florence paid attention to everyone else’s details: a car missing from a driveway in the early morning hours, a skipped shift at work, one less body tucked into the pew on Sunday morning. This was how the people of Florence governed themselves: with the understanding that there was no such thing as a secret.

the better-off displace old families
leaving just a remnant behind
neighborhood changes fast
innovative foliage, bolstered lawns
porch, deck, people repaired and not
show it all happening at once