Posts Tagged ‘Rutherford’


RWB Workshop Poem of the Week – July 31

August 3, 2018

Poem of the Week 7/31/18

Francisco and Eva

Bobbie O’Connor

Francisco and Eva
just left the U.S.
for the third and last time.

After growing some friendships
and getting
needed treatments and meds
they had to go home
to Honduras
where Eva can’t get those meds.

We became quite close,
in spite of the fact
that they can’t speak English,
and I can’t speak Spanish.

Now I hope,
with the help
of bi-lingual friends,
we can email each other.

They insisted I visit them
in Honduras,
and I hope it can happen.

And, most of all, I hope
Eva’s cancer
will be healed.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—July 24

July 27, 2018

Poem of the Week 7/24/18

Della Rowland


A plane bound for Teterboro airport may someday crash into my backyard,
onto my house, onto me and the cat,
onto the dense line of trees that forms the back property line
and the north-east corner where the picnic table and grill sit on the patio,
onto the side porch of the house, with steps
going down either side to both front and back yards,

which on that day will be in flames.

The white plastic fences, guaranteed for a lifetime, no painting required ever,
will melt,
curve concavely, coquettishly into my yard,
fold neatly into the burning fuselage,
which will blaze brightly,
as suddenly splendid as lighter fluid on charcoal
when a wooden strike-anywhere match
swiped across patio slate is thrown into the barbeque grill.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—July 17

July 23, 2018

Poem of the Week   7/17/2018

Don Zirilli

A Message from Me and My Care Provider to All the Romeos

Dear broken jar of honey,
I’m writing from the savage sting
reflected in your cracking glass.

Dear desperate bugs

lighting up July,
my fireworks are all prescribed.

Dear love-starved wanderer,
I wrote the recipe for your tears.
I made them taste like ocean.

Dear empty room with slashing light,
I’ve got no space for cribs,
no paint for rainbows.

I’m a doctor of remaining.
My bedside manner
burned the beds.

Dear hands-on Casanova,
when you find out what it really means
to walk on air,

you’ll hold me as tightly as I hold you.


RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—July 10

July 11, 2018

Poem of the Week 7/10/18

Gabriel Milton


He standing alone, apart.
Not yet statuary,
No more than old.
No less a part of that
Coppered dullness beaten cold
Against the dawn,
After the death of childhood,
Before the building storm.


WCW—Julie Hart

July 1, 2018

2016-08-11 08.58.03

Wednesday, July 11, 2018, 7 p.m.

Williams Center for the Arts

Plus the words of William Carlos Williams
and open readings from the floor


Originally from Minnesota, JULIE HART has lived in London, Zurich, and Tokyo, and now in Brooklyn Heights. Her work can be found in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, The Brooklyn Poets Anthology, Anti-Herion Chic, Beautiful Losers, Juniper and at She is a founder, with Mirielle Clifford and Emily Blair, of the poetry collective “Sweet Action.”

Memento Mori

I see you’ve noticed the skull–it was his
idea. After donating the brain
to Princeton, it was picked clean by beetles
at the Science Museum, sawn in half,
hinged, fitted with this hook. I could keep things
in it—old keys, rubber bands, paper clips,
worn erasers—but I won’t. Yes, I talk
to it. The teeth still seem to be him, the rest—
not so much. Some people find it creepy,
but to me it’s comforting, this part of him
that thought and ate and talked—above all, talked.
I’m still honing my thoughts against his head
as a whetstone, imagining his jaw
dropping, his eye sockets thrown to the sky,
his laugh filling the whole room, any room.


Contact: John Barrale –


RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—June 26

June 27, 2018

Poem of the Week 6/26/18

Stuart Leonard

Mr. Blue

She painted the car
with a brush of her own.

Went and named it, Mr. Blue.

Could’ve been just another blue Chevy,
and I never thought she named it Mr. Blue
just because the car was blue,
or because her eyes were blue,

or her heart,
or a blue moon over Jersey,
or her dad strumming the blues,

or the blue captain’s uniform
her first step-father wore
when he visited her at night.

It was all of that,
a Who song,
a sky to fall from,

a blue ’72 Impala,
Turbo-Jet 400, four-barrel carb,
and Deluxe features.

Hit 150 on the turnpike, four in the morning,
near the Pulaski Skyway,
and we laughed as the world
was torn into shreds.

Mr. Blue wasn’t dragging along any baggage.

Took us way uptown, to the bag-lands,
gun to your head, didn’t mean shit,
knew how to throw a party,
only let the blue-eyed girl pick the music.

Sometimes when we were cruising,
stoned and silent,
her blue eyes fixed on nothing ahead,
she just started to cry.

Mr. Blue would hand her a tissue
and play “Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes.”

I would keep driving,
usually nowhere,
usually find somewhere
to pull over,
get in the back,
sweat up the seats,
get Mr. Blue jealous,
take that urge out on each other
as if we were being forced.




RWB Workshop Poem of the Week – June 19

June 25, 2018

Poem of the Week 6/19/18

Grand Canyon

Mary Ma

You’re in the Grand Canyon,
you always said you’d go.

You try to absorb
what is before you,
but the vastness overwhelms.

the words are left alone in your head,
“Grand Canyon, Grand Canyon, Grand Canyon.”

You’re interrupted by
the sound of your childhood nickname.

Hearing this, you think
“Who is here that I love?”
because only the people you love
call you this.

Because hearing this name
means you are seen.

For this, you turn away from the vastness,
to find the voice
and embrace.

I’m at the grocery store.
I always pick a basket instead of a cart,
so I’m shifting the weight
from arm to arm,
relieved to arrive at checkout.

The clerk calls me “sir”
when he hands me my change.

Suddenly I am
hearing your name
in the Grand Canyon.

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