Welcome to tinywords 10.3.
You can read all of the poems in issue 10.3 right here. I also invite you to check out the tinywords 10.3 e-book, a nicely laid-out PDF you can
Category: Issue 10.3
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recession rising from the factory stacks five small black
October chill
the silence in this shadow
homeless …
a plastic bag drifts
across the sidewalk
sunrise
from village to village
a rooster’s crow
heat wave
at the big city
flower market
ten thousand shades
of radiant yellow
migrating geese
rising
out of my chair
slowly
two clouds collide
over rush hour
dense fog
the train evaporates
into a distant horn
flea market~
every old watch
keeps its time
moonrise
moonset
your nakedness
autumn afternoon—
an empty shopping cart
waits at the bus stop
dusk—
ten thousand blackbirds
and no place to park
lit fish stall
open mouths darken
in the night
Gogyohka
she slips
into the blue haze
of memory
Staten Island
Ferry
clear settles night on my a moon white shadow tombstone
deep breath
before I enter
the panhandler’s aura
election night smoke from an unseen cigar
in the distance gunshots opening the dark
a gardener
on the radio
smells the jasmine
where street meets sunrise—
the steam
traffic jam—
my thoughts
still in motion
a yellow leaf
describes the course
of the wind
amid fallen leaves
a business card
still doing its job
prayer candle
shadows pass through
each other
haiku
I’m not a poem.
I’m a dog. Respect
The differences.
Pelham Parkway
between the winter trees
the child’s breath
morning walk
at the crossroads
my thoughts
flow
in Spanglish
in the pool
of the ruined resort
the wild ducks
commuter platform
a harmonica blowing
the freight train blues
leaving the Tokyo subway,
a hundred umbrellas
rise in unison
at home
bay window
no matter the season
drawn curtains
he’s not what you’d call sociable. sometimes he just starts yelling for no reason. but there’s
rooftop garden—
climbing the stairs
back to nature
gallery tour
the ladies gaze
at the dozing watchman
park bench
pigeons begging
the homeless man
department store sale flyers flying
hotel bar:
ice shifts
and shifts again.
just a flat tire
chained to a lamppost
waning autumn moon
dead birds at the base
of the lit skyscraper
autumn midnight
footprints
the prairie dog stretches
its shadow
deep snow …
the acorn
up to its cap
funeral procession the hitchhiker tucks his thumbs in his pockets
nor?easter—
scent of the river
rising
sheltered by the bus stop empties
Buddha eyes—
a hunchbacked woman sweeps
the temple steps
lovers’ moon—
a cicada leaves its shell
on the fence post
birthday party
the new neighbor
shows his tattoo
sight unseen
my maternal grandfather passed away on june 22 1980 from black lung thanks to 16 years of drilling chopping & chipping coal down in the guts of the white star mineral
dead-end street
every house but one
boarded up
the writer
we exchange
a few words
trailing the snail
on the pale gray pavement
an ellipsis . . .
a bowed head
in each bus window
mountain fog
shortest day—
the waiting room clock
at the ICU
January thaw
dog-walkers greet
leashed strangers
goodbye hugs—
all the places
where we touch
not getting my joke
but he smiles anyway—
the stone buddha
juncos black
silhouettes in birch trees
notes on a tangled clef
cherry
blossoms
drifting
down
mission
street
three
pink
hookers
black fedora
the blind man
inspects its brim
corner beggar change is everywhere
tinywords 10.3 in print
It’s taken awhile, but tinywords issue 10.3 is now available in a lovely print edition, with beautiful cover art made for just for this edition by artist and