Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Poetry

By: Dovile Mark His job was to collect secrets Finding out who had access to the information Learning to make friends I knew where the secrets hid Stacked up like delicious cookies on top of each other In a jar…

Fiction

By: Richard D. Hartwell Thanks. Here’s to you. Did he ever regret taking off? No, I don’t think so. He never really talked about it much, or at least not about the beginning, if, in fact, there was a beginning. Most…

Poetry

By: Richard D. Hartwell Sitting here at the VA listening, more than ten wars’ worth of lives and lies told by veterans, wondering sometimes how much of what I hear is really the composing by memory-makers from years ago, or…

Poetry

By: Sam Rapth In the wide space, those rocks that are seen by naked simple eyes are called stars… Much like the celebrities… The question is why, so simple, are the eyes?…  

Poetry

By: Jim Piatt Do you hear it, the hushed misshapen rhythms inside the songster’s poetic head? The chords he pens now only a cryptic cacophonous array of black and whites plummeting downward from saddened eyes: His muse, dead now, lying…

Poetry

By: Jim Piatt Reports of new battles flow inward, Like shards of splintered glass they Awaken heartbreaking feelings, My heart cries out in dismay Amidst the furor of finite time, Tears stream down my cheeks, Bitter information about new wars…

Poetry

By: Bejoy Balagopal The swirling gust raged hard against us; Like it had a score to settle from yore. The clouds, dark and angry, pelted their might, Was the searching, intense sky thirsty for more? With strength draining away, I held…

Poetry

By: Bejoy Balagopal To glide across the desert of unsaid dreams, Like a bird untouched by the burden of flight, What would it take for that lil girl To savor that broken tunnel of light. To waltz on the enticing warm…

Books ReviewsNews

By: Linda M. Crate Let me just say here and now that I loved John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars lest you get the crazy idea while reading this review that I do not. I can definitely say without…

Fiction

By: Riley Eleanor It’s six twenty-two in the morning and the last time I was up this early was four years and ten months ago. You see, this sunrise will be the last I will view in San Francisco, perhaps the…