02. April 2015
A celebration of the female voice in the Duke City.Continue reading...
28. February 2015
Sweet name for a new place.
I cruise your supermarket with poetry
in my heart. I finger the Pendleton,
spend a lot of time at the Pendleton blankets,
and if time is money I own a Chief Joseph.
If time is money I sleep in a Best Western
with metal stallions rearing out front...Continue reading...
20. February 2015
San Antonio-based Wings Press and other regional small presses offer relevance and empowerment in the face of conservative backlash.Continue reading...
07. February 2015
I have always loved poetry, its power and resonance in the human heart; and I have always had an affinity for the Russian poets, especially those of the October Revolution of 1917, how they used their words to further that revolution.
My meager study is cursory at best, a mere dip in a great sea of verse. Yet, it might whet your appetite to explore further, as Russian poetry holds a unique place in literature. As Joseph Brodsky says in his essay on Osip Mendelstam, “For those raised in the English-speaking world, it is difficult to comprehend that Russian poets have long had a political status as great as that as more public figures and that Russian poetry frequently has a political impact.”...Continue reading...
10. January 2015
The metal jackets of bullets
rust in the dark river
beyond the weaving grass.
Lightning bugs rise up
in their landscape gaping
with old graves overgrown.
Tractor guts rot and ripped
up soil becomes nutritious...
21. December 2014
A much needed poem for the season by V.B. Price.Continue reading...
01. November 2014
On the road from Portales to Clovis
sand mixes with cloud,
the air thick with grainy patches where dust
joins with air in a raucous dance
ignoring the people below
ignoring the animals in their burrows
ignoring the cows eating, heads down, haunches up,
not a care in the world...
20. September 2014
A group of
for the bus, all
looking down the
street at the same
will carry them
into the future,
and one of them
takes his shirt
off, as if to say:
this is my city
23. August 2014
At the bus stop and out of the corner of my eye
I see myself waiting,
awkward bundle at my feet.
I am wearing the same sky blue fleece
though it hangs looser against my body.
My hair, still long and full and brown,
frames the younger me in her oblivion...
31. July 2014
We are we & when we are not we
the poet thinks we are a gun
in his head the poet thinks we are a rivulet in the forest
the poet thinks we are we
& when we are we we are a naked moonpearled night
& a child fishing thick shadows...