Get it Out

Writing a poem


is exactly


like taking a shit.


You’ll just be sitting there,


working or


watching TV,


reading, whatever,


and suddenly,


it takes you over.


It becomes


the most important thing.


It is urgent.


Get it out, or


face the consequences.





Every Saturday I go to church.
It’s not what you think.
My non-traditional tradition, this ritual,
Calling me each week.
I could sleep in, but no–
I am pulled to be there
in community with this particular congregation,
To receive the blessings it offers me.
There are no pews, but tables in a U-shape, chairs,
No pulpit but a microphone passed around
No altar but a box of paper prompts,
Our communion is our writing,
words scribbled in notebooks,
Then read aloud, no matter how profane
Or tender, absurd or banal.
The sharing makes it nothing less than holy.
This sacred passion we share for words, books, writing,
Intensifies as we gather, emboldens us to grow,
Makes us more than we might be praying
with our pens in our rooms alone.

Every week we write it, minutes at a time. The gospel according to me, to you.
All true, none of it true, so help me God.

Black and White

The web drops its weight
behind the horizon of the clock.

Time and the numbers shimmer
in the pagoda of dreams.

Behind the screens,
the silver torches of memory and tasks
burn like crowns
won and lost.

Diamonds and all the words
fall sideways
and reshine
as stars.

The white garden moon
above reflects in each of our
deep black sea hearts
pulling our islands
our flowers
our pale flying gulls
out of our tides.

Copyright Kay Winter

Lazy Writer’s Lament

As a writer [or so I brazenly call myself],
I find myself so often torn
between my desire, my need,
my keening and yearning to produce
the great American something-or-other
and my laziness, my fear,
or my willingness to be seduced
by the latest Top Ten Bestsellers by real writers
who actually write, who put discipline and duty
before pleasure, leisure, and procrastination;
workers of words, their clay and their putty,
so that when they are done,
they may sit back and smile
at their children, their progeny,
lined up on shelves,
real volumes, pompous and pretty.

— Elaine Pedersen ©

This Page Is Fire

This page is fire
blackening the palm of my writing hand
Blistering the wrist.
The last page was kindling.
I wrote the dry sticks, the brown grass, the July heat.
And as I said
my pen wrote
and now
This page is fire.
I take a burning brand from the page
and against the night’s darkness write

Copyright Kay Winter


Tonight I will dream
that all the letters
you’ll send me
will arrive as white birds
flying from where you are
and landing in my hands,
paper again.

A thousand letters.

A thousand birds.

In my dream
I’ll open each one
and find it blank.
And I will imagine your words,
and write them on the pages.

And the heavens will
answer back for you:
“Yes, yes, that is exactly
what I wanted to say.”

Dirty Job

It’s a strange position.

Being a poet means you have to pay attention.

You have to drink a lot and

Do a little bit of drugs

But then you have to quit.

You have to forgive everybody.

You have to stop spitting at

Yourself in the mirror.

You have to read books.

You can never give up.

The poems are out there.

Watch the families leave the church.

Their lives are epic.

Their lives are cinema.

Watch this old wrinkled man

Shut the door to the bathroom stall.

He has a small brown paper bag and

He is smiling, smiling, smiling.

Watch the traffic go by.

They are sheep who learned to drive.

Its up to you to save them.

Feel it.

Take it.

Smother little explosions in your heart and

Write them down later in a notebook.

You finally admit that you miss your dad.

You should have done things differently.

You want to call your mom.

The wind comes in flavors.

The music plays between your ears

At all times.

It wont stop.

Its your life’s soundtrack.

The most beautiful girl in the world

Makes you some coffee and

You’re so sad you’re happy.

You cry until you feel good.

You drive down the street you grew up on and

You feel the sun in your stomach.

You’re on a mission.

You’re Charles Bukowski’s bastard child.

You’re a warrior from the ancient plains.

Go ahead.

Jump off this building.

You will fly.

You can’t kill a poet.



Copyright Tim D.