Creative

I fancy myself a bicoastal woman. The forging of this status began on a bitingly cold day in Lexington, Massachusetts in the winter of 1959 as I walked with childhood…

Along with three other sightless bundles of fur, the entity destined to spend 20 years of her life with me was born in the early morning hours of the first…

Each time I look out the window, I see a poem passing. —Gwendolyn Brooks The thing about poetry is this: Sometimes you get an idea, and you say here’s a…

Preparing my morning coffee, out the kitchen window I see how a needed rain has bathed our thirsty earth. Up on the hill, an unexpected sight— seven carrion-seeking birds perched…

I have just settled in with a blanket, cat on my lap, book of poetry in my hand, when I hear the bells ring. Four Tibetan brass bells, bought at…

Kevin Patrick Sullivan has written these poems to pieces in the San Luis Obispo Museum of Art’s permanent collection. Let the Light Shine after a photograph by James Marx This…

At the rookery, cormorants converse, a cacophony of baby-birds including egrets and herons calling for fish, more fish, more fish. They return yearly to nest over, under, and by each…

The other night I had a dream, strange and disturbing. I was in a class, literature maybe; the unseen teacher shared a text with us, told us to go home…

Halloween is upon us. Prepare to be assaulted by all kinds of vampires, werewolves, and other ghost-like creatures that cloves of garlic, religious crosses, and even silver bullets aren’t likely…

The opportunity for new insight can so easily pass us by— that potential opening to life lost. With this in mind, I pull on long johns, then sweatpants, turtleneck layered…