the river now

two legs
four legs
legs to stand on
legs to talk on
mute except where we meet
at the ground
our ground, we agree

she spins it
with each step
a river of sticks
to stand on
movement always makes
my heart
beat back
I remember
even the frozen
moves at a level

we call it death
when the legs fall down even
the tree kins its knee
no blood here, I can't see it
no blood here, she said
its floating
all around us

the river now
moves on
stone stays
stone pile
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I Tell You This

​I do not hold onto my anger
  Or disappointments
And that affects my poetry
Housing projects
Single mom
Brother's hand me downs
Abuses by boys not sure yet
How to treat a woman
  Or girl
With breasts already bigger than
                                    their experiences
Dreaming of breasts as comfort
Grabbing them for confirmation
Child for a husband
Who hit with words
Withheld emotion
  And conversation
  And the will to provide
Sex as a privilege
Not desire
  But punishment

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The Potato Ricer

Cathy Schmitz will be one of the featured readers March 21, 7:30 - 9:30 PM, Next Year's Words, The following short personal essay was published in 2016.

It will be a strange Thanksgiving this year. The first time we will all be together after we have all have been majorly disappointed. Even across our state lines, our heartbreaks the same. We will console each other and listen, even though we have heard it many times over already from those within our own states, our own circles, our own unanswered prayers, our own parties, our own lines. I hope that's our first day. Our Wednesday. The day before we gather around the food and pies. Thankful for what we already have, not what we hoped to have. That's the difference, the reason for the day. And why we pack and plan and travel for this day every year, to be reminded of what we already have.

Thursday, our family uses the same potato ricer that has been in use almost eighty years. It's not pretty. It's banged and chipped. It's quite a chore to rice all the potatoes for a big gathering; yet, each generation, in turn, fights for that honor. Young nieces try to cajole new boyfriends into ricing with them, and we let them, listening to their laughter over their shared mess. Long married couples, it's another year, ricing and reminiscing of past feasts when children were small, standing on stools to plop the softened chunks into the weird, old contraption, giggling as water and new reformed shapes come out the sides. Like play dough. Yeah, like play dough. 

This year I will be thankful for that ricer, and all the memories of children and dates and dogs and bones and dishes and linens and gravy boats tied to it. And I'll wash it lovingly and dry it tenderly, and look forward to next year when the ricer reminds me again to be thankful for what I already have, not what I will or won't have. That is what this week, this day, is about. This year more than ever.

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wvw Spring Starts in Two Weeks

Think Spring. If you are a gardener, you may have ordered seeds to plant and they are already sprouting waiting for the soil to warm enough to be put to bed. But if you are a procrastinator like me, you may just be drooling over the stack of seed catalogs that have arrived in the mail. My personal favorite isn't a seed catalog but the David Austin Rose catalog. Even if you never plant a rose, you can love this catalog.

As you anticipate for crocus and tulips to bloom, why not register for wVw Spring Workshops and Write Saturday:

Sunday afternoons, 4 - 7 PM, beginning March 11 - Register

Wednesday afternoons, 1 - 4 PM, beginning March 14 - Register

Thursday evenings, 6:30 - 9:30 PM, beginning March 15 - Register

Write Saturday, March 10, 9 AM - 4 PM, Ulster Park - Register

118 Hits

Poems by Tim Brennan

A Feint Louse or

a faint sound a might be augury
I see you've got the door in
the door I see you in you installed
the door I see a slight
crack of light through really
around a crack of light always finds a way
a sound that niggles at memory the same
like the word surf or a conversation
eg. the salad bar on a saint's day after church
(affection pulling him into the room)
a fair or a fare or an affair or the
head raised again he sees her push her
hair from her face
another phone call from no one announced
fanning hot air from room to room
she sits at the desk across the room
flowers die in twilight



her vagrant hammering on the dias on Sundays
the regimental flag forge-draped over the gate
and whether or not we're in the catalpa the cows aren't

after-hours in grasses perched on one leg
the blood draining past yes or no
any movement will be in its deliberation (delineation; linearity)
typically categorized
movement of the spine and shoulders
of long-lines tuna lost-waxed and crucified
spread out to dream on a grass set of tables
of salt and whiskers ointment-jarflies
a scam of eggs and bushspring desires

words catch in a crow's throat
feet catch at the mouth
the cramped quartet's positions in a rising sea
the levels of meaninglessness
in constructive desires

a fraction
a fiction

leafing through sunlight


Timothy Brennan is a poet, painter and woodworker who has lived and worked in San Francisco, in Brooklyn, and now in New Paltz, NY, where he has been renovating his old house for over twenty years with no end in sight. He has had poems published in The Chronogram, Awosting Alchemy, The Blue Collar Review, and in the 2011 and the 2014 edition of the Wallkill Valley Writers' Anthology. He assists in presenting Next Year's Words: A New Paltz Reading Forum. 

177 Hits