Poetry

"...February sky a grey body bag, the Berkshires’ stark catalog of snow-covered maples and oaks standing solemn and silent and cold..."

"I’m idling on the parking garage roof..."

"the immigration raid when the rumor of a raid was passed around like bread & the women made plans, si dios quiere..."

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world..."

"I go down to the edge of the sea. How everything shines in the morning light!"

A psychiatric reflects on a true gift, envisioning a future of hope, healing, and inclusion and celebrating the power of unity and compassion.

During the holidays, can we blend tradition with modern media habits without sacrificing the meaning?

"I remember the first time my fingers burrowed the swamp where belly joins leg to feel an artery throb..."

"The end of the world was mistaken for just another midday massacre in America. Brain matter and broken glass, blurred boot prints in pools of blood..."

"But when I finally learned to feel everything, I became a psychiatrist who touches nothing but a patient’s hand at the first meeting and the final good bye..."

"Sometimes as an antidote To fear of death, I eat the stars..."

"When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down..."

"Give us this day our dividends in cash and fixed stock options as we outperform all coders against us..."

"I read your poetry like a hiker on a treacherous trail who finally stops to rest and drink and admire the view of snow-capped peaks..."

"Without a father to guide me north, your poems were a compass pointing toward a world where doctors can be poets..."

"...we are saying thank you faster and faster, with nobody listening we are saying thank you..."

"I listened as he taught me to relax the hand just enough."

"Do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments?" "I said not yet but I intend to start today."

"...and my brother sprawled on the carpet singing me to sleep, the song our grandmother sang to our mother under the olive trees in the mist of her stories..."

"They toil in a sterile field, pack produce on ice fast as death’s freedom allows..."

"He stands like a farmer with hired hands, ready to begin the reaping..."

"My nephew, may his wildest dreams come true, confronted by his parents with his teenage grades shot back, Those are not my grades; immediate, definitive, assured."

"I want to jog down to the river & make it my bed—I want to walk its muddy banks & make me a withdrawal..."

"And then I understood everything..."

"What they taught in school was not what we needed, and what we needed (they said) could not be conveyed."