Poem

poetry-magazineCanning Memories

By Frank X Walker
Indian summer Saturday mornings
meant project door screens sat open
waiting for the vegetable truck

No new moons or first frosts
just the horn on an old flatbed
trumpeting the harvest

No almanac announcement, no ads
just a short black farmer in overalls
and mud-caked boots

Grandmothers who still clicked
their tongues, who called up the sound…
Poem

poetry-magazine218

By Ricardo Reis
Translated By Margaret Jull Costa & Patricio Ferrari
I love what I see because one day
I will cease to see it.
And simply because it is.
In this placid interval…
Poem

poetry-magazineSalt Sky

By Alberto Ríos
The bright night sky,
Doorway to everything—

In all that black
All those stars:

Salt.
Pinpricks.
Poem

poetry-magazineJanuary Poem

By Suzanne Matson
Only the wrinkle
of a disappearing squirrel
breaks the snow stillness.

The walker, swathed in wool…
Poem

poetry-magazineMass Choir

By Frank X Walker
The sound of a race is music but like nothing with
strings or words. You’d need a hundred men with
hammers and women stepping Juba but with both
hands making the body a drum  like in “Hambone.”

Closest thing to it I can imagine would be a whole army
marching in step and singing something like
“The Colored Volunteer” while you …

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