New England holds its antique charms for such a one as me. The woods, the waves, the poets’ graves call pilgrims seasonally. The village green in Amherst dreams of Dickinson and Frost. The shades of these speak poetry in rhymes sublime and soft. But double Concords, Salems, too, plus devious round-abouts conspire to witch my […]
Passage to Massachusetts Read More »
The boy in the browning field Does not see the scattering Of crabgrass, sunflowers, or tumbleweed. He does not smell the lavender or the dull decay of a coyote kill. He does not remember the rusty beer cans He kicked off the dirt path To arrive here at this intersection. He stoops Watching a black
The Boy in the Browning Field Read More »
Once the darkness was full we saw stars— striking frozen air, rippling through the underside of heaven in their meteoric plunge. Silvered white, cobalt, crimson, and then into the earth. A flashing that spoke to our very skin set against the blackness of night. A vapor immortal in absence. *** Amie Sharp is a poet from
A Geography of Night Read More »
The infinite is no longer Than a slice of sky that slipped, Stealthy, behind the apple of your eye. The universe gifted me with insignificance, And no matter how grateful she made me, I still wanted to peer into your navel. When wind slaps wet palms against pages And tempos twist tear drops, triptychs, and
Great exercise, walking into your resistance. The dog’s ears blown back like golden sails. The last quarter mile is the hardest. Then, unexpectedly, you cease your assault. For a second, I pretend you’re a conquered foe and that I’m the master of Nature.
Colorado Prairie Winds Read More »
Silence was a long shout. She took his heart away, And he drank to quell the venom she spat, And she disengaged Because no pain was worth that. I am constant as a falling star, or My teardrops are– Patters of memory make patterns to enrapture me And I see you for the first time You