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  • By This You Shall Know, by Benjamin Jacobson

    Of Blood and Frogs – July 17, 2015 The river ran red.  My daughter waded knee deep in the crimson cascades and raised waves with her outstretched fingers.  The flashes from the reporters’ cameras froze her playful splashes in place for a series of eternal moments. Steve’s hand grasped my shoulder, drawing my attention.  “She’s a natural, Aaron, a real beauty.  She could be a model.” He spoke haltingly, a middle age man uncomfortable commenting on the attractiveness of a prepubescent girl.  Steve brought me here, to the shores of the red river. I brought Miriam.  We came to reassure

Featured Poem

  • In The Neglected Garden, by Dawn Corrigan

    Elizabeth Seton College, 1989 Here each statue lacks a nose, a finger, or even both, and in a hand’s dismantled hollow a spider weaves its growth. Farther in, amid the tangle, a ruined fountain appears. Each catch bowl bleached like a bone. No water poured for years. On the side two struggling birds traced in bas-relief. One’s claws dig the other’s back. Her beak locks on like teeth. The same two birds occur again on an urn still farther in. One side is crumbling to dust. The lichen have moved in. This time the two are face to face, a

News

  • The Fourth Estate

    Image courtesy Wikimedia Foundation In a democratic society, where citizens supposedly choose their own leaders, one may find it logical that an unbiased system of press would be necessary for the citizens of such society to make informed decisions regarding whom to elect to leadership roles.  The term used to describe this particular area of society that specializes in distributing information is the ‘fourth estate.’  People’s right to free speech and individual expression guarantees the fourth estate as a profession, known today as journalism. In a democratic-republic like the United States of America (USA), journalists are important because they work
  • In The Neglected Garden, by Dawn Corrigan

    Elizabeth Seton College, 1989 Here each statue lacks a nose, a finger, or even both, and in a hand’s dismantled hollow a spider weaves its growth. Farther in, amid the tangle, a ruined fountain appears. Each catch bowl bleached like a bone. No water poured for years. On the side two struggling birds traced in bas-relief. One’s claws dig the other’s back. Her beak locks on like teeth. The same two birds occur again on an urn still farther in. One side is crumbling to dust. The lichen have moved in. This time the two are face to face, a
  • Interview with Josh Taylor, Co-Creator of Blimey Cow

    As covered in some of your previous interviews, YouTube is having a massive impact on modern culture. Never before has fame and publicity been so readily in reach of the general public, and countless individuals and companies have reaped substantial profits from the platform, whatever the quality of their content may be. What is particularly encouraging is the rise in easily-accessed, quality videos, seeking to provide free education or social commentary. Blimey Cow is an excellent example of the latter. Using humor to address important life problems, they’ve grown from a single channel with a few thousand followers to a

Featured Poems of Yore

  • “Beauty” by Elinor Wylie

    Say not of Beauty she is good, Or aught but beautiful, Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wood Her wild wings of a gull. Call her not wicked; that word’s touch Consumes her like a curse; But love her not too much, too much, For that is even worse. O, she is neither good nor bad, But innocent and wild! Enshrine her and she dies, who had The hard heart of a child.
  • “The Violet” by Sir Walter Scott

    The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining; I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; No longer in my false love’s eye Remain’d the tear of parting sorrow.
  • “Breathes There A Man (from The Lay Of The Last Minstrel)”, by Sir Walter Scott

    Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “This is my own, my native land!” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
  • “If Death Is Kind” by Sara Teasdale

    Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning, We will come back to earth some fragrant night, And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white. We will come down at night to these resounding beaches And the long gentle thunder of the sea, Here for a single hour in the wide starlight We shall be happy, for the dead are free.

Audio/Visual Poetry Weekly