by Jennifer Landretti | Feb 15, 2021 | Songbook
My name is Tim JohnsonI’m home from the warI’m out at this lighthouseon the Michigan shore.There’s blood on a sidewalknear the Liquor Town store what ripped at my edgesnow cuts to my core.Should not have left collegegone off to Iraqpushed eight ways to Sundayto find...
by Jennifer Landretti | Feb 1, 2021 | Songbook
Spoken:It’s an unusual sight at the Wallflower ball where a band plays a waltz in a moonlit old hall. The floor is deserted, no couples at all just single folks dancing alongside the walls.What wonderful walls at the wallflower ball made of roses and violets and...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jun 5, 2020 | Essays
One afternoon in Wyoming, I sat on a hilltop. The wind seemed not only to blow the grasses but the sunlight itself, sweeping it into my skin, a warm jangle. I was having some down time in a high place. Having slowed, I could see how much a rushed life had whiplashed...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 3, 2019 | Poetry
He is not among the exultanttwenty-eight pointing upand back. Nor in the two figuresstanding on air. He appearsnowhere in the hemp or amongthe sharp-edged shadowsof the phosphorescent flash; not therein the washed grays and whitesof shirts and eyes, not inthe...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2019 | Poetry
After dyingI say we are givena little time, a lull of farewellthat delays our forgetting like a pool in the creek sweepplaced just sofor us who, just beginning,have come so faralready —to this stillness into which trees reflect once moreas we too reflect in our...
