From the Book of Broken Odes Your sadness flutes through dowel holes cut by woodpeckers in flaking sycamores. They flutter bark and call the maple’s sons, the ones as well with sap and weep. And on their tears the mayfly’s tripwire legs alight to sup, its wings still – (flimsy fanatic, hardened heretic) – And…
“We ought to do something about North Korea,” says Jo Schmo Politician, shaking his head, and the audience murmurs in agreement. A boat of food is shipped overseas, and a defector is shipped to the States. The salve has been applied to the itch, and North Korea fades, once again, from the public consciousness. American…
Along the smooth path powdered with dust, Beneath the bluish shadows of the evergreen. Where is the thing that I lost? Toppled crags and boulders grow in clusters, guard the way. Clamber over, run away, Each tread sprays yellow moss. How many ants have marched this day? Spears of light pierce the woods The stones…
Dear readership, I recently had the opportunity to interview a fantastic person named Ben. He’s my brother; wise for his age. You might want to read what he has to say about the incoming season. Amelia: What does summertime mean to you? Ben: It means freedom. Amelia: Freedom from what? Ben: Freedom from school, and…