I used to be afraid of the visions, especially in the woods at night.
Categories
Poetry
An iguana moves to catch my eye. Time seems to stop. These lost creatures stare, tell how they were pulled from their burrows . . .
If forgiveness is the price of peace, it is one that many people in the aftermath of war will find impossible to pay.
One lifetime only a world without wars, and peace to sustain, you see – no other territory to conquer – the tree growing taller...
Soon the veins and arteries of cities are clogged with caravans of the outraged.
... you ask the boreal forests named after Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind ...
... see which lives we lift and those we lay down in the silence ...
I have to get up close and personal with the feijoa tree...
We can’t understand each other’s words—I am a stranger she wants to welcome into her wavering world...
a path of olive trees filled with booming laughter now whispers beneath a barrage of bombs.
When we're all in bunkers on Proxima Centauri b, who’s to say we won't destroy those oceans...?
God sits next to her in the playroom as I distribute plastic pizza slices detached at their Velcro hips.
Behind every Palestinian life taken is the kinetic force of a thread-link snapped and the First Law of Thermodynamics is always at play.
The balm of Appalachia, the comfort of all the neighbours knowing my business -- how did it all go so wrong?
The spontaneity of painting “natural” or “ordinary” landscapes is deeply embedded in my neurons.
He was the loneliest man on earth. His words were not even listened to by anyone.
Wednesday the banks shuttered, the shop shelves went majestically bare. Not that it mattered. We were out of work, our currency not worth its paper.
May we never forget that we all belong and share the space – that is Mother Earth.
All hands on deck aflame our capsizing boat lonely sinking only planet
Phases of the moon. Again mirrors. Worlds in her.
She said she was on fire, ending the line with three little flames
A chilling reflection on the witnessing of past and current atrocities
Birds observe human disconnection from nature and quietude.
Poet-guitarist Paul Serralheiro pays respect to Montréal’s historic jazz artists.
A delicate interplay between the fragility of life and the nuanced dance of relationships
Something alive under the snow makes it shiver like it’s asking not to be shovelled, scraped, or salted.
For more on Kathryn Jordan’s writing, photography and events, or to buy her book, please visit her website.
Each body remembers the necessary distance between lovers the space & touch, here & recalled
forest berries grow by the cool rushing creek scent of irises
Passing the gatekeepers four times with the rite answers we left you there in the garden
