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Category: Weekly Poem


There’s this little girl. She is 4 years old and sticky with glitter and life and fresh peanut butter and jelly She has at least 2 questions for every coiled ribbon of hair on her head She is tutus and ruby red slippers Dreams of television set stardom and cotton candy castles She is her own sunshine and limelight Her own sweet lemonade and plastic purple high heels She is so very f o u r I ask her what she wants to be when she grows up She answers, “a rockstar princess fairy….queen!” and all I can think...

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Birth of a Song

  Mother of fine goddesses, tone felt, skies rubbing against each other the Earth in its usual whirl, but unsettled hearing the timbre of the creaking of creation the unleveling of tones related to the birth of song uncertainty except for talent in the genes and knowhow of many years of playing instruments, what are you hearing now, what subtle colors of the sound of ancient faces, mythologies of constant levels of the Earth surfacing demand for recognition of gold of stone of wood of the hand of music, of the body and soul of time revealed as it...

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Perimeter of War

Our home eventually blew down, stained planks shattered under the winds of his panic. We held our jackets high over our heads like bright sails and tried to fly away. He lived in the propane fumes of his van, trash collecting under its axled belly. Each day he called out to his enemies hunkered behind the unkempt hedges. Yellow flowers dared to bloom on those greening branches at the perimeter of war, our homeless home. Our small bodies airborne for only moments: sewn as we were to that darkening battlefield of our father’s mind. ______________________________   Tina Carlson is...

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From a book I’ve learned how to send nightmares like love letters returned to sender. I’ll need red paper, a black goat, coriander, and blood. Still, the instructions are vague. They don’t say where nightmares breed. They don’t say if they will be like the ones you had when you slept beside me: my cat, tiger-sized, pulling you from the bed by your foot. Or if they will be the nightmares where the hand| reaches to the windowsill to place an apple, again and again, and all the while you know something horrible has begun.   ______________________________ Felecia Caton...

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Whereas our Governor chooses to devalue the voices, minds, and bodies of our children. Whereas the youth of our state continue to struggle at the hands of their own mothers, fathers, and the institutions established to recognize, educate, and protect them. Whereas the numerous bodies of our babies, black, white, brown, and every shade of the sunset and land we are wrapped in, are used as collateral in politically motivated agendas that fail to serve anyone but those behind closed doors. Whereas progress is halted by the few, those invested in things not of our future, our most precious...

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