• “Ode to Orion” by Sandra K. King

    Sunbeam footprints shimmer along the gravel road; stardust shards of quartz are as twinkly-eyed as were the gentleman’s whose resting place  I’d hope to visit, located just past the alfalfa fields and beyond the farmer’s fence where they lie cradled by the roots of the tall tree  into which shared soil he has been interred. Hands and feet once dedicated to good works– faithfully, but not flawlessly executed– are perceived by many to be now stilled yet believed by others to have transcended  beyond our spectrum’s perspective. As the aspen before me quakes and the earth below its branches is quiet, an arrow from the gentleman’s quiver is heard to…

  • “The Names We Give” by Tyrean Martinson

    A friend of mine mentioned to me that she doesn’t know the names of many of her neighbors, despite having lived by them for years. Instead, she and her husband have given the neighbor’s names: Bluetooth Guy Weed Guy Yoko and Whatshisname Mick Jagger Johnny Carson Girl. She said she doesn’t want to know the names her neighbors may have given her.  I laughed and told her about my made-up names for my neighbors: the heart runner the boy who runs (he grew up so I really should change this) The guy who loves dogs The Nuclear Blonde Barbies (stay out of their way) The short-but-badass runner-woman The walker with…

  • “For Creation” by Elizabeth Beck

    Though all we’ve got is grit and spit we can still build good things— still weave nets to catch each other nests to welcome and warm strengthen ties like flexing muscle,  tougher each time. Though all we’ve got is pluck and muck we can still grow good things— still plant seeds of justice nurture hothouse passions prune our dying branches, to make way for spring. Though all we’ve got is earth and breath and blood and sweat— That is all that we need. Elizabeth Beck is an island writer who likes to share scratched-out and blacked-over words. A deep love for the South Sound Region is only exceeded by her…

  • “Pure Vision” by Dawn Ellis

    I am present Here, In this moment, Just after 6 a.m., in Rumpled clothes From yesterday Thrown on to Meet the empty beach, Before the noise of The day begins. When peace like a river, attendeth my way… Squinting at the morning rays, Sunglasses forgotten, I have pure vision of Blue bay And sky, of Golden morning and Two retrievers Walking with me. Blessed hope, Blessed rest of my soul… I feel the comfort of Steady crunch, Tennis shoes on Beach rock and Paws of my two friends Padding alongside. They stop to roll on The sun-warmed beach and then Spring up to sniff everything, Especially crab shells. I hold…

  • Past Themes and Instructors of The Writer’s Workshop

    The Spoken and the Unspoken: Making Your Dialogue Sing June 17, 7 – 8:30 p.m. FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited Abandon Your Poem: Rules for Editing June 24, 7 – 8:30 p.m. FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited Kill Your Darlings or: Mourning Clichés and Burying them Under the Stairs July 1, 7 – 8:30 p.m. FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited I Am The Story: Writing at the Intersection of Identity, Culture and Justice July 14, 7 – 10 p.m., FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited Poetry Critique Group for Women of Color July 19, 9 a.m. – noon, FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited From Your Head to the Page: How to…

  • Cotton Candy Ghosts of the Pier by Elizabeth Beck

    like a late summer bee diving into a bowl of pollen He’s outside smoking beyond the thin curtain framing him, bridal, in the gauze of just-before-night ecstatic blue, blazing almost neon before thundering into black lit ends of cigarettes as lighthouse beacons beckoning, warning those are scuttling, tearing rocks His mouth is full of them a graveyard of stumbling blocks a velvet viper poised and coiled In the coals of his nicotine fired chest there is diamond dust that glitters up into his eyes when he holds something, tightly, that should not be held and takes whatever he can get His hands on leaving skin flush-painted off-brand signs on a…

  • “You Are a Poem” by Jennifer Preston Chushcoff

    Every agony and ecstasy Every pulsing, beating, breathing Moment You are a poem. Your body beloved Is Hallowed. Sometimes broken or bent, But always remember this, Always Holy, Always Healing. You are becoming. You are a poem. Made of earth, of comets And collisions A violent beauty at birth. Your cries, your voice, A sacred song. Each unseen defeat, Each anguished faltering, You gather and rise up— A Battle Hymn Written on your skin. You are a poem. Jennifer Preston Chushcoff is a word nerd with a Halloween heart. She was born and raised in Southern California and continued her trek north after attending UC Berkeley. Jenn has been frolicking…

  • “Funeral” by Troy Kehm-Goins

    An erasure of Chapter 69 of Moby-Dick The bodyflashes Slowlyinsatiate rapacious floats further and furtherfloats murderousfor hours and hours pleasant joyousdeath floats infinitemocking mourning life needed itthis desecrated bodynevertheless floating straightaway the corpsewith trembling fingersleaping over a vacuum There’s your lawthere’s your orthodoxy!Thus the great terror death a worldyou my friend?There ghosts them. Troy Kehm-Goins is a Puyallup poet and artist who has been published in WRIST, Post Defiance, Read Write Poem, and Les Sar’zine. His work is a mixture of the everyday and the mythological, drawing upon diverse influences and inspirations. He has also self-published four poetry chapbooks, the most recent of which is Black Psalms. He resides online at…

  • “Visitation” by Bill Fay

    It hid in butterfly wings silkworm mouths and the spinnerets of Black Widows, in the preening feathers of birds on screen savers, in baby carriages with ribbons and bows, in bridal gowns between the folds. Shook the ragdoll, boney fingered. Bewitched neighbors to strangers and strangers to enmity. Clung to dorms, doorman, dowagers unheard, flew on shuttle cocks like showy singing birds, on the edge of tear-ducts, home to harried eyes, in the Black Forest and North Sea sunrise. Rode grocery carts and prescription warnings, kissed children in their kindergarten mornings, tripped kitchen corner window pane alarms, charged the drawers of rolltop desks with charms. Rattled naked nations with tendrilled…

  • “Hepatology” by James Stuart

    Sometimes, when the boy thinks of his father, the back corners of his mouth begin to tingle, and saliva fills the space around his tongue. It is a sensation unlike simple hunger and without the Pavlovian charm of say, a sudden craving for a sliver of Junior’s Famous Cheesecake. Instead, it is akin to the shiver that runs the length of the spine and reminds a person of their ultimate place in the grave. A feeling more of dark mystery than tangible satisfaction. The timing and intensity of these episodes vary and predicting them is an imperfect science. For instance, the mere mention of his father’s name is not enough…