by John E. Keats
The butcher’s daughter didn’t seem dangerous to strangers. The most stable image I’ve retained of her suggests nothing but decency and order . . .
by Arlene Mandell
“How do I love thee?” No response except, “Professor Mandell, that sounds like a Hallmark card . . .
by Terry Barr
I can’t believe I’m in a mall. A mall in Prague. What would Kafka think . . .
by Kristina Moriconi
What made butterflies most beautiful to me was the gracefulness with which they flew. I did not want to stop the flutter of their wings . . .
by Dennis Vannatta
No more diversions or evasions, no more of the literary niceties we’ve been so fond of . . .
by John S. O’Connor
It turned out to be a good trade since I took my game down the street to play against the Ice House wall.. . .
by Shuly Cawood
. . . one of the first brave things you will do in this young marriage . . .
by Tom Leskiw
I spy a discarded spray can—the tagger’s brush and palette, so to speak . . .
by Ellen Darion
My father’s doctor calls me at work . . .
by Rebecca Dimyan
I did not know I was lost until I came upon an old man on a dirt road . . .
by Mel Livatino
My first sight of Jerry is indelibly etched in my mind. It was the fall of 1968 . . .
by Mark Brazaitis
José “Pepe” Gomez—stage name: José Ramón—saw what the Buena Vista Social Club achieved. Why, he wondered, couldn’t he do the same . . .
by Mark Liebenow
Hundreds of thoughts surface throughout the day that I want to share . . .
by Mark Rozema
I don’t know if movement is an illusion or not, but sometimes I feel like Achilles trying to catch the tortoise . . .
by Gina Troisi
It’s been three months since we’ve stopped bouncing around from apartment to apartment, crashing on floors and couches . . .
by Lee Patton
The old guy in the booth told us the mountain was closed . . .
by Philip Raisor
Poetry was part of our family, the way laundry was. If it was present, it was personal . . .
by Jacqueline Kolosov
By the time I neared the end of the pilgrimage—some four weeks of continuous walking—I no longer made a distinction between past, present, and future . . .
by Laurie Ann Doyle
Her name was Ruth. She had eyes so blue they looked almost white . . .
by Judy Kronenfeld
Maybe she will buy some rugelach, or poppyseed strudel, or some mandelbrot , or a chocolate marble babka, along with the bagels . . .
by Dee Redfearn
It is early May when Rosanne, a longtime friend, asks me to make the camino . . .