by Warren Gaston | Sep 10, 2016
To Federico Garcia Lorca Federico, socialist playwright, lyrical poet, you pushed your lines beyond the limit, words scrawled outside the page thin edge. Men with leather boot heads loathed your voluptuous world, feared your fist punch plays, were cut by your...
by Warren Gaston | Sep 3, 2016
A cry is the first song. A laugh the second. A groan the third. A yawn the fourth song. A sigh the last. Each sound, a song from the mouth of life.
by Warren Gaston | Aug 21, 2016
It is blue. It is green, not pearl white, not golden, and infinitely brief. 2000
by Warren Gaston | Aug 21, 2016
The snake, black beauty, four feet dead, broken, still in death, curves of serpentine grace. My wife, oblivious, stepped over the enemy of Eve, a root among rocks, a silenced fang. I saw the snake, froze in fear, or was it fascination, could not step over it, stuck...
by Warren Gaston | Aug 20, 2016
Paradise: City of Angels (8) Soaking in a dictionary of whirling wet words, nouns and verbs pulse poems into the mind, a warm storm of metaphor and rhyme.
by Warren Gaston | Aug 19, 2016
Paradise: City of Angels (7) Flameless moon, cool to touch, you burn a hole in the black night sky, you set fire to the tinder of my soul.
