Resistance and Action Podcast – Episode 1 – YouTube


Kyle Laws, Poetry — Leaping Clear

Blood Berries

If “merciful church of the hooves of horses,” was written,
what would follow, but a monastery in the desert

where the road is impassable in all but the driest weather
and voices cannot reach to stars because what’s left

of foliage blocks the path, limbs on the backs of gods
painted gold with autumn cottonwood and aspen.

Virginia creeper climbs the outside walls, affixes
tendrils, shades the high southern slant of sun.

It came in a pocket of faith that wants to remember home.
The gardener takes it down one Sunday,

says it penetrates even the sturdiest bricks, brings disease
in its clutter at the bottom. You miss its shade.

Winter birds miss its berries. The same gardener
takes out all the sage, says it’s too woody.

You wanted to trim it for turkeys wandering
the hills since before we were here.

– Kyle Laws

Source: Kyle Laws, Poetry — Leaping Clear

Christien Gholson, Poetry — Leaping Clear

No One

The Qi scholar stands in his doorway,
holds a cup of tea with both hands,
breathes in shreds of grey cloud, strips
of blue beyond, scent of rain,
maybe snow, grey wings on a slash pile,
a few desolate drops on flagstone,
a man wiring together a coyote fence,
hired on the cheap – another refugee,
journey worn in the way he lights a cigarette,
the way he stares into the canyon…

He has been no one most of his life.

The Qi scholar stands in his doorway,
opens his hands. His tea cup is gone,
was never there. The moon, the moon,
one of a thousand identical sisters,
appears, balances on the eastern ridge.
He lets it rest on the end of a finger,
then uses it as a coin to cover both eyes,
practicing blindness, practicing

When did he finally let go
of being someone else’s no one
and choose to be his own?

The Qi scholar stands in his doorway,
sticks out his tongue to catch an almost
illusory desert raindrop. Did one land
in his mouth or not? Rain, rain, from
such thin clouds. Patterns, patterns…
the way everything is shaped and shapes,
is a map, torn, glowing blue, a song
of unfathomable loss, illuminating
a path to itself. He laughs.

Becoming no one is not a choice.

The Qi scholar stands in his doorway.
He has been standing there
for one thousand years. He was
standing there before the doorway
was built. He will be there
after it is gone. He marvels
how trees make mischief at night,
exchange places in the dark, how
a lone snowflake escapes
from a star named Capella, sails
through his forehead, how Capella
is really a system of four stars
in two binary pairs…

No one looks at the moon.

–Christien Gholson

Source: Christien Gholson, Poetry — Leaping Clear

A Longhouse Birdhouse: BRENDA HILLMAN ~

Street Corner

There was an angle

where I went for

centuries not as a

self or feature but

exhaled as a knowing

brick tradesmen engineered for

blunt or close recall;

soundly there, meanings grew

past a second terror

finding their way as

evenings, hearing the peppermint

noise of sparrows landing

like spare dreams of

citizens where abstraction and

the real could merge.

We had crossed the

red forest; we had

recognized a weird lodge.

We could have said

song outlasts poetry, words

are breath bricks to

support the guards singing

project. We could have

meant song outlasts poetry.


Brenda Hillman
Pieces of Air in the Epic
Wesleyan 2005

Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: BRENDA HILLMAN ~

Régine Crespin; “Wesendonck Lieder; Richard Wagner – YouTube

Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variations | BBC Symphony Orchestra, Leonard Bernstein – YouTube

The Poems Of Benjamin S. Grossberg: Untangling Sex, Love And Death – Hartford Courant

Benjamin S. Grossberg, director of creative writing at the University of Hartford, writes poems about sex, death and love, and also about finding and leaving home.

from work for CT Poets Corner — a monthly feature highlighting the poetry of Connecticut authors — selected by invitation.

Source: The Poems Of Benjamin S. Grossberg: Untangling Sex, Love And Death – Hartford Courant