The Art Divas / Divas of Verse

Passer-By, These Are Words   Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading I want you to listen: to this frail Voice like that of let...

She Ties My Bow Tie   What you thought was the sound of the deer drinking at the base of the ravine was not their soft tongues entering the ...

won't you celebrate with me  won't you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon bot...

The Archeologist   In one who doesn’t speak the story petrifies, gets stumbled over, causes hurt. Then, says the man who should know about t...

Lullaby in Echo Our ancestors didn’t get everything right and died like several of their dotted letters and many declensions. What they slan...

My Hole. My Whole. what to call you who i’ve slept beside through so many apocalypses the kind that occur nightly in this late stage of the ...

Winter The ten o’clock train to New York, coaches like loaves of bread powdered with snow. Steam wheezes between the couplings. Stripped to ...