A sad truth

December 26, 2019


November 3, 2019

We don’t age with years, we age with scars. Scars that reminds us of the things we’ve conquered with fear, with love, and with pain. Scars that reminds us that nothing in this world comes easy, but ultimately everything heals through time.

Juansen Dizon

The Glass House

October 12, 2019


It’s still warm from the day,
the seedbed, light and moist.
Leafy greens are best
sown during a waxing moon
roots during a wane
even better
at night,
like tonight,
in a faint
The fingers know
the shape of seeds,
the necessary depth
of planting
and how to envelop
in readiness.


At forty-five there is still time.
Systems are functioning
there is a rumour
things may not be
all go.


Frost’s first kiss
lies upon the ground.
Brassicas and spinach may still be planted —
these seedlings already hardened outside
for days and nights to come.
More important, garlic.
Ready the beds
for the longest night
choose the largest
from last year’s harvest
(crush the remainder into virgin olive oil or compost)
gently rub the papery skin
to liberate a bare bulb
hold tip upwards
insert to depth
no more than twice the bulb length
cover with compost then pea straw
for nourishment, water retention, weed suppression
until the shortest night


Her body has changed shape —
carries weight and water.
Her face has a decoration of unevenness.
These nights, and sometimes days
the bed she sleeps in
presses back
and there are unforgiven aches.
Finally, the mattress
needs to be

Cloches ease transition

through these days of early winter.
The glasshouse
brittles with age.
Surfaces are etched.
There is a fungus
that cannot be
washed out
in spite of days
spent scrubbing.


The heart. The mind.
This ready pair.
Something is always missing.
A matter of the senses.
A matter of connection.
There is the matter of fate.
There is an inability
to convey
se paraten ess.


The nursery lights
shut off
There is nothing to see
at night and light
can only give so much.
Days shorten without notice.
Still the bed lies prepared
and the cup of the moon
holds a smile.


Through winter’s dark
the plantings grow
in the ground
around her.
Spoken to.


She bleeds
with the moon.
Meanwhile the quick of her thins,
and what she grows
no longer sustains her.
Soon she will be transparent
and on some unexpected
cold night
in spring
like a glasshouse
of unseeded beds
she will shatter.

Hayden Carruth

Our Sponsor says –

June 25, 2017


June 5, 2017

runs from the middle
of my head, splits
into different paths
on my forehead where
so much of the work
of piecing together occurred.
I was a grown woman
with both my parents
around me as if I was
a child again as the doctor
worked post-car crash
sewing and knotting
and picking out turf and
ground from where
I met the ground
as if to root there.
There it is – a path
I can trace my fingers on
now that I am without them –
top to side to side to bottom –
as if the journey
is finished and I am old.

Gigi Marks

Passing Through

February 21, 2017


– on my seventy-ninth birthday

Nobody in the widow’s household
ever celebrated anniversaries.
In the secrecy of my room
I would not admit I cared
that my friends were given parties.
Before I left town for school
my birthday went up in smoke
in a fire at City Hall that gutted
the Department of Vital Statistics.
If it weren’t for a census report
of a five-year-old White Male
sharing my mother’s address
at the Green Street tenement in Worcester
I’d have no documentary proof
that I exist. You are the first,
my dear, to bully me
into these festive occasions.
Sometimes, you say, I wear
an abstracted look that drives you
up the wall, as though it signified
distress or disaffection.
Don’t take it so to heart.
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much
as being who I am. Maybe
it’s time for me to practice
growing old. The way I look
at it, I’m passing through a phase:
gradually I’m changing to a word.
Whatever you choose to claim
of me is always yours;
nothing is truly mine
except my name. I only
borrowed this dust.

Stanley Kunitz