by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Libby O’Connor Dear Mr. Frost, I do not think this path is wide enough for the two of us. There is a road you’ve traveled, that I’d like to tread; But, Mr. Poe, my rapid heartbeat is driving me mad with its unrelenting T H U M P I…
by Libby O’Connor I raised my sword -a simple quill!- and poked each finger until the ink did spill upon the page, I swirled the ink and bent them to my will, and from the words upon the page, my inky callus did swell.
by Libby O’Connor I step out in the pristine snow and think, ‘a blank, white page,’ my footprints trail behind me as I travel onward, they punctuate my blank, white page -with essence of me.