Archive for March, 2014|Monthly archive page

Always Wanting to Touch and Be Touched; Always Wanting to Love and Be Loved

In Poetry on March 20, 2014 at 12:01 pm

The way to my heart

is a White Russian milkshake.

It’s that easy.


I wish it wasn’t.


I used to think love was about

round rosy cheeks or

raised eyebrows up close or

the folds and the tunnels

of an ear

the crevices in a top lip

the dents in a grin




I’m finding that it is just about food,

and who will bring me a

milkshake at 2 AM.


Karen Ann Frederick, USA


Winter Spirits

In Poetry on March 17, 2014 at 2:59 pm

The sky is a sheet of ice dripping into a pail.

The cold is the embrace of my dead grandmother.

Her voice the call of the crows in the sleeping trees.

The black feather I found on the steps is her letter to me.

I am a voice with no song.


Down the path and up the hill are the remnants of a house.

The foundation outlines a square on the ground.

Stones cemented into the last of the chimney splits the wind in-two.

A hawk circles over the place.

The chalk-line collapsed.

The level unlevel.

I hum.


Linda Morgan Smith, USA

In the Ocean of the US Postal Service

In Poetry on March 11, 2014 at 11:58 am

Well I asked my cat

“What is it like

to be in love?”


And she looked at me

with saucer eyes

and folded over to

clean her butt.


I guess she doesn’t know either.


I am looking at pictures from the nineties.

I am wondering what you went as for Halloween.


I want to thank you for the constellations

because I think you are indirectly responsible.


I’ve written you a hundred letters

but I sent them to other people.

I don’t want you to read them

but I want them to be read.


I live on a diet of avocados and burgers and art.

And I hope you still enjoy the simplicity of a milkshake.


There is an itch on my back I can’t reach.

You are an itch on my back I can’t reach.

You are an itch.


I am looking for

a place to live but I would

rather live with you. Even though


you snore like my grandmother

just before she turned ninety and died.


I keep a postcard by my bed, stamped,

with your address,

ready to be mailed. It says



And I think

I might mail it one of these days.


Karen Ann Frederick, USA