by Warren Gaston | Feb 5, 2021
I hung a birdfeeder in our backyard, filled it with seed, and waited. One day. Two days. Several days, I waited. Would avian diners arrive at my modest meal? A cardinal appeared, head darting nervously between pecks of seed. In the brief introduction to his book New...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 30, 2021
Many poems are the result of deciphering silence. Some poems are the result of deciphering noise.
by Warren Gaston | Jan 27, 2021
Because I have a skin. Because my skin is a particular color. Because the color is called white. Because white is privileged by custom. Because the custom is enforced by law. Because the law is on my side. Because I must do very little to be judged right. Because I...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 25, 2021
I didn’t believe then. I don’t believe now. Not in the efficacy of votive candles lifting prayers to heaven on small waves of heat. But in the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourviere on a hill high over Lyon, France, the praise of city traffic rumbling below, the Rhone...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 18, 2021
If we could lose the body, skip it out over the flow of eternity like a flung stone skimming a river, shrug it off like a chip on the shoulder, remove it like a sweater of hungry holes needing to be fed and fed. Without the body we would not need politics, we would...
