The Summer of Our Content
Now was the summer of our content, made possible by the sun, and here we lay, and here we slept, […]
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Concert
In the 80’s, there, in row 103, me, lighter raised, like everyone else in praise of music. But mine –
I read the news today, oh boy
I cannot handle my country handling guns, aiming into the eyes of children, my neighbors, yours, ours. Where is god?
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Train
By Katherine Gotthardt Maybe you’re supposed to detach from life’s thick ooze in order to recover. Is that what I’m
Now Accepting Locations for Poetry Installation
Hi readers! In conjunction with Write by the Rails, I am doing an area-wide poetry installation. The goal is to
Now Accepting Locations for Poetry Installation Read More »
Gossip Column
AC went out, like my neighbor who everyone says “gets around.” The guys say she’s hot. The women, well, they
Backyard
The world is carnivorous – poets not so much. We are grass on a suburban lawn, planted like a good
Tortuga
Because the matted hay blocked his wrinkled gaze, and because I am who I am, I felt the call to
Cloud Cover
Yesterday’s sunset, clouds so close to street, settling into early bedtime, red plugged into the sky, like a shorted nightlight
Promise
When day looms long, heart too small to hold it, Earth, too, pensively looking at the stars, I find it
Conductor
This train wreck? Look closely. A hand reaches from the rubble. Take the trouble to reach back. Be the conductor.
There Are Days
And then, there are days when the world tears itself apart. Or maybe it’s just my heart. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
Good Night
See how time moves, slinking along like some aging cat, shoulders hunched against the moon, a silhouette of fur and
Teacher
Living as a poet is hard. See, the teacher is always changing, not just when September comes, but every moment
Heading Up
Do we all get where we’re headed? I’d like to believe I do. I’ve held a cold hand or two,
New Book Coming
It’s hard to believe only last year Bury My Under a Lilac was released, and I’m already ready to release
In Store
On course for spring, we run into frigidity, a storefront of lingering winter. See how we crash through the front
Monday Unhanded
This Monday morning, pear blossoms tumbling with the wind, white cloud grounded, blue sky clapping with one hand. Well done.
Passage
Never turn back, they say. But my back takes the stone barrage, bleeding faster than gossip, bruising like a damaged
Cubano
To write poetry, you must untrain your brain, forget the rigidities of relationships. Where is the mug of Cuban coffee
Monitor
All screens switch. Not momentarily – any milli-moment. Count them in fractions. One-one hundredth. Two. Dissolved into some vague animation
