Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Blog

By: Simon Heathcote “All you need is already within you, only you must approach your self with reverence and love. Self-condemnation and self-distrust are grievous errors. Your constant flight from pain and search for pleasure is a sign of love…

Poetry

By: Matthew Borczon It comes with the job I wasat worklistening toJudy talkabout hertime asan aidin a nursinghome shewas sayingthat whenthey wereclose todying shenever wantedto workwith them because ifthey passedthe aidwould haveto cleanthe bodyand shejust couldnot do that It is…

Poetry

By: April Mae Berza The Goddess of Books and the Singer-Songwriter (For Dale) I am but a goddess of books, books welcoming you with my loveliest chapters,the soul of eternal words and finite worlds. You are a mortal, a singer-songwriter,…

Poetry

By: The Rhapsodist EVERY GIRL-CHILD IS A PETAL OF WITHERED FLOWERS There were nights I saw my sister eating herFingernails, drinking from her teardrops as theyRolled down her eyes, down her cheeks_ intoHer mouth. She would stay awake all night,…

Blog

By: Ian C Smith She says something about money.  Wary as a sidestepping crow, I know I should pay attention after cowering from her furious silences.  Nightfall, wind creaking in the cracks, scenes from our fenestrated past blind turn around…

Poetry

By: Jim Bates Springtime misting rainTender garden shoots reachingThirstily drinking. Finch and CardinalSinging songs of sunny joyMusic for the soul. Apple tree bloomingLazy sunshine drifting throughCanopy of calm. Tree Swallow flyingAerial acrobaticsCarnival of flight.

Poetry

By: Virginia Aronson Kitchen Pirate (Anthony Bourdain, 1956-2018) If I’m unhappy,it’s a failureof imagination. The epitome of coolmen wanted to be himwomen wanted to bed himbooze and smoking and agelooked good on himeveryone knewhis craggy facehis TV showshis deep-felt loveof…

Poetry

By: James Aitchison Is life day or night? Is new blood morevaluable than old? Is there any soil more sacredthan the soul in which to plantlove and truth? Is what we leave behindmore important thanwhat we have taken? Smooth is…

Fiction

By Anna Cates A faint mist, reeking of swamp rot, hovered above the boreal gulag.  The remainder of charred trees rose from the muck like middle fingers raised in defiance to a long-forgotten god.  Ten thousand years would pass before…

Poetry

By: Carl Papa Palmer Hooked Kristy sent an email, said click this linkfilling my screen with a YouTube videoof a fish in a fishbowl for nine secondsbefore flashing to view kites crashing. Watching, fascinated, fixated, besiegedby nine second clips of…