Featured Poem 11/4 – “The Darkling Thrush”
The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like...
Write Gooder, not Better
The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like...
Identity Crisis by F. D. Reeve He was urged to prepare for success: “You never can tell, he was told over and over; “others have made it; one dare not presume to predict....
If by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But...
Fishing in Winter by Ralph Burns A man staring at a small lake sees His father cast light line out over The willows. He’s forgotten his Father has been dead for two years...
Native speakers often learn phrases by ear before they learn the written words that comprise them. Even if you’re not sure which word and spelling is correct in the phrase, you’ve probably heard news...
Sonogram by Jennifer Chang Dark matter, are you sparkless for lack of knowing better? The room you’ve spun is distant and indivisible— a flickering lapsarian, you satisfy no mute progress but collapse, spiral,...
There are many things to be discovered in the wonderful world of Twitter. One of those things is a contest regularly run by a certain literary website for a new columnist. Successful auditions land...
Geese by Michael Shorb Just north of Valley Falls rust mustard hue of fading autumn chills the marsh last storm of Canadian geese stuns the flyway imprinted engines of feathers and cries. I wonder...
Let’s get real. How many of you can name a contemporary author who writes in a language other than English? A poet? A journalist? Words Without Borders is a publication driven by the idea...
Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother...