Tag: life
member name: Lynn Doiron
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January 13, 2008 04:45 PM EST --
[readers, original post follows this revision. Original had word count of 531 and 500 was my target length. Currently approx. 488 words. Am hopeful it still "says" . . .
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October 15, 2007 08:26 PM EDT --
Into view from the desolate window
red bud's rotting leaves, the malnourished tree
I planted as a string, one of 12,
compensation for Arbor Day Foundation
donations of cash, this . . .
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August 02, 2009 08:38 AM EDT --
I live on Santa Rosalia with three other dogs who really live there and let me hang with them. Their owner, her name’s Jan, when she has Rafa bathe Munchie, Beanie and Rufus, she gets him . . .
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July 25, 2009 02:24 PM EDT --
In the process of writing a novel inspired by the life of a woman who died in 1936, what began as one story meant to fill out the true life of a true person who lived recklessly, a dare-devil by all accounts, . . .
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August 05, 2009 02:49 PM EDT --
The True Life Adventures of Irene in White Tights does not deserve the underline distinction, that long solid line denoting a manuscript has metamorphosed from 8 ½" x 11" letter-scored pages . . .
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January 06, 2008 08:27 PM EST --
Sad pear cools his palm;
Wasps sated by nectar wells
Cruise pear cider drifts.
Buzz of drunken stingers' wings--
Eyes following in wound eights. . . .
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December 01, 2007 12:34 PM EST --
For three days I deconstructed
sweaters, saved bone buttons off cardigans
and rolled used yarn into balls, wondering
where the arms went (once they were gone)
and each . . .
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October 14, 2007 09:59 PM EDT --
There is a man wrapped
in these flannel stars.
He is brighter than Antares.
He will fill skies
and is made of our cycled seed
for bone, breast, breath.
He is a pink planet
in a galaxy of arms.
He is . . .
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February 11, 2007 01:56 PM EST --
Those almost perfect girls
(with stiff drapes of shy curls)
apply the true lies of glosses
to lips and pointless nails.
As a group, they’re alone together,
a clique roaming malls
or . . .
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January 03, 2008 08:24 PM EST --
Curl it round me,
she tells the sky,
and asks, too, for a horn button,
a hole to run the button through
in this woven shrug phenomena
of air swirling her.
As fledgling . . .
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