by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
by Stephen Mead Is this pen & a million other quills from a still living bird. My hand is yours’ wiping sweat from your face & finding some trace to form. It is resolved now. It is patient & the night blooms with that light of quiet faith & hunger….
by Stephen Mead 1 These berries seem candles within, their blue juice lucent, distilled right on the vine. Malleable hands shape supple bunches, the sun’s aristocracy. How pure is the fingered fruit, clear globes in palms! Could what they capsule be medicine? Multi-tongued? From country to country, healing is an…