The Cafe Review

by Michael Macklin Now freshly painted walls tremble in the hard light of November with secrets a carpenter scratched in framing pencil — No moon

by Christopher Soden word came days after at a poetry workshop consistent with the nature of our connection he was a friend rabbi father shaman

by Marian Aitches 1 One by one, birds fly through the wide hall — shadows on fire – lit walls brighter than the

by Bruce Spang Do you hear the soft ohhs in the mist? These are sighs of God. They do not matter to the man — late, no doubt — who taps at his

Jack Myers — two comments on craft taken from his letters to Bruce Spang I. Form In my own writing, I strive to have all the

by Daryl Morazzini While the world sleeps, I bath under cold flowing waters, hands clasped in prayer. The ancestral spirits

by Naomi Shihab Nye So, the years go by and we find a few doors and windows. Some are always open, some were never open. Because we are crazy and

by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling Now that I cannot do it alone, my tall son leads me into the chilly waters of the bay where I float above the jagged

by Leslie Ullman a prickling like tiny, almost downy cactus thorns that work their way through leather gloves sometimes settles at the

by Leslie Ullman Balance in moving parts: the rider spurring her horse on a straightaway before she remembers to reach down and tighten the girth

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