A Box of Mother (Sestina) Robert Diamante I flew to Texas to visit my Mother. She in the living room looking changed. Only two months since my last trip, now a box was there beside her whirling fluid into tubes forcing life into her failing body. To see her overwhelmed me. My Mother, skin pale
Misunderstanding your backyard topography is the second biggest sin you can commit when creating a landscape. The first is not having a plan. I was drowning unaware. During the first summer in my new house there were sporadic bursts of life throughout the yard. Large thick leaves
I wish you could have seen the backyard when I first bought the house. Today, I look out at the devastation I have created and wonder, have I gotten anywhere in 17 years? The house is a small cross-peaked New Englander tucked up close to the
Read ("Blue Eyes" and "The Barren") in North by Northeast: An Anthology of Writers from Maine published by Littoral Books. PURCHASE HERE: NxNE Read a great review of the book on the Littoral Books Press page. Cover art by Judy Allen and book design by Lori Harley, introduction by Alfred DePew Short Fiction by:
Ruminate Magazine has a wonderful blog filled with insightful articles. I am thrilled to be included among the writers on The Waking. Read "The Cosmic Eliipsis" on the Ruminate website.
READ "Tekton" Recently, I visited friends in Amman, Jordan. It was my first trip to the Middle East, and though my experience was quick and largely as a tourist, I had a few magic moments that can only happen when you shed any schedule and open
She Likes Graduations Robert Diamante The girl walks up the aisle. She smiles at everyone who stumbles on her gaze, her thin shoulders are hunched forward beneath the weight of a worn backpack. She is scanning the crowded subway for a place to sit, and her eyes
Crows By Robert Diamante I prefer my winter hues maudlin: the poetry flows. I prefer the sky cast gray, lighted by the crows.
The Earnestness of the Plowman Robert Diamante I work hard every spring To redefine the lines between my lawn and the gravel drive, the sidewalk and the median that spans to the curb: lines blurred by the Plowman For every winter, after a long snowfall, The Plowman comes to “knock it all back." And every year I