To a fish on her birthday

Can I still believe in love, in spite of you? Was it a Pisces thing, you loving so much? For nineteen years I’ve swum slow circles around your death. I rarely speak or write of it. People tend to turn away, afraid to touch my pain, fearing a touch will make it theirs. Even I • Read More »

Blogging for the future

With a few clicks I hang words here faster than ink could dry. Quick speech cast on the winds may evaporate to half-forgotten recollection, but this is more permanent. Poured in careless streams with little edit, boldly the slant and kilter of unfiltered thought sinks deep into real time. Collective thoughts carve a virtual Grand • Read More »

Morning flight

I watched a mourning dove fly up with such slow beat of wings, it seemed barely enough to make it fly. My heart, a free thing, loose and at odds with itself, longed to fly with it, to be its mate, to nest—to raise young— to free young things in flight in time, to stand • Read More »


A poem is violin song. It asks only that you let it play, even as it sings your life back to you, and rends your heart to hear it and do nothing but listen. Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser