May 1, 2019

The minute I laid eyes on her, I noticed something different about the woman seated in SMP’s 5th floor reception area. I don’t mean just the 60’s-style Marlo Thomas hair, which looked like a wig, nor the black cat eye frames of her faux-diamond-studded glasses, nor her...

May 1, 2019

The northbound train on which Dr. Kendal was riding stopped in Wilmington long enough to take on passengers and for a vendor to come aboard briefly to sell copies of The Every Evening. Dr. Kendal, who had been employed part of the year in his advancing age at the Old S...

May 1, 2019

    My husband, Prince Manfred ‘Manny’ Susswig of Bavaria was late. I had already occupied my usual season spot in Seat One, Row Nine, Section One-Hundred Seven inside Madison Square Garden to watch our Knicks battle the Indiana Pacers that late winter, Tuesday night l...

May 1, 2019

Mrs. Gail’s fingers tap the counter as a man counts out pennies, one by one. He sounds out each number, pausing between every coin, and slides the copper circlet across to Mrs. Gail.

     “One hundred twenty-two… one hundred twenty-three…” 

     Mrs. Gail...

May 1, 2019

     Tim wiggled more firmly into the chair.  It was his. Finally! Tomorrow he would bring his things in and truly make it his own.  Then he’d start doing the job he’d always known he could, given the chance.

     “Tim, you got a minute?”


May 1, 2019

The Slow Salute

By Devon Miller Dugan

Lithic Press


Poets are often called upon to “write and read something” at the funeral or celebration of life of a family member or friend. It’s a daunting assignment. Sometimes the poet is very close to the deceased and is overwhel...

At the Track, 1945

Behold row upon row of shed row stalls

hunkered in early morning mist,

as Dave threads his way to the office,

newspaper clipping in hand,

an ad for an experienced “Hotwalker.”

Listen to the cigar-reeking foreman,

You been on tracks before?


Okay, be her...

May 1, 2019

After Tornado Warnings

Rain, banshee winds, stuttering lightening

slashed the sky all night.  An hour ago,

all the drama stopped. Disasters slunk home

not having broken a single window.

When I went to take out the trash just now,

the sky was smooth and rich as an altar cloth...

May 1, 2019

The most important thing for poets to do is to write as little as possible.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)


Some days try as I might I find nothing to write

no poems or anecdotes, advice, wisdom or witticisms

all dried up for now, probably for the best


It’s not...

May 1, 2019

Running, free,

I remember,

the recess yard at Eden Gardens.

Walking, calm,

to the bus-stop,

past the junkyard and the field with the legendary two-headed snake.

Or under

the overpass

of the San Mateo Bridge, covered with graffiti.

Our backyard,

I remember,

looked out over Industr...

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Brave: an interview with Nancy Mitchell, Poet Laureate of Salisbury, Maryland continued

November 1, 2019

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