Poems published in Piker Press, a weekly journal of arts and literature.
4,206 articles — page 34 of 141
"...my crime against the inarticulate..."
"... this is our first real conversation..."
"...A revelation, wanting to be immortalized in words..."
"...how they run with incredible intent..."
F.D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature and anything else that piques her interest.
"...you’d kiss my lips, sweep all worries away..."
"Mine is a tragi-comic tale..."
"...farmer’s toil in soil, and miller’s grinding at the wheel..."
"...I move on and on without motive..."
"...what everything boils down to in the end..."
"...dishes in the sink without her lipstick..."
"...Someone close to him died..."
"...How is it not a genocide, Charumbira?..."
"...we knew that we felt that love..."
"...even they come back..."
"...love starting from emptiness remains in the dark shadow of emptiness..."
"...Pleasing an audience is a slippery sport..."
"...kiss after kiss..."
"...please love your spaghetti..."
"...Not contained by ribbons..."
"...I'd long been insecure about how I’d come off..."
"...Mosi-Oa-Tunya National Park , a UNESCO World Heritage Site..."
"When I die don’t you dare..."
"...love is an urban legend, passed through the generations, from one friend of a friend to another..."
"...when power meant steam and strawberries were seasonal..."
"...swim into eternal days like this..."
"...my skeletons are tumbling ..."
"...Another loss handshakes the old losses..."
"...I woke to the great city, cars people, buildings..."
"...especially when it's minus fifteen..."
