My old friend Price Strobridge might begin like this: If the observable universe Is 13 billion years old, and I am 65, then I have been around 433 whatever comes after a billionth of the time the universe has been around. As far as the universe is concerned, I’m not even born yet. If the […]
Sparks from the Campfire Read More »
Eric Stephenson’s poems are like notes found in bottles floating in the wake of a long voyage. They rarely contain conclusions or directions or morals. Far more often, they celebrate the mystery of human existence, wearing the accessories that “make us think this is who we are,” catching an occasional glimpse of pure being, knowing
A Collection of 12 Poems Read More »
Identity is a vessel to fill, we the chalice makers and liquid artisans, the inventors, hosts, and cupbearers, serving ourselves and our guests the flavor and finish of our secret recipes in spacious galleries of the mind, a white orchid petal floating on a sanguine sea of blood red wine.
It took years to dislodge the hate searing my brain and every limb, like a tree burning in a firestorm. I’m charred but still standing, waiting for the rains of spring.
I chose the third wave of the set, gliding over water so aqua cool that every cut, bruise, and scar along the way faded into something I never was but am forever becoming. That night, gazing at the sea, I dribbled blood red wine down my shirt. It glowed like a birthmark in the fading
Between the Fishermen and the Shore Read More »
What a clean arching curve I made when I leapt from the deep green sea and cast myself into your glittering net. Gently, you pulled me from your web, studied my scales, and said, “Oh, Mr. Fish, you’re splendid! But I’m afraid you’d never do. You see, I’m waiting for the perfect catch.” Then you