Jeff Epton's Outdoor Poetry Season

Though the exact where of it has burrowed away, the diminishing light, like a tiny bulb nestled in a frosted glass bowl, like a...

Though the where of it has slipped away, the welcoming light (a tiny bulb nestled in a frosted glass bowl, a glowing egg cradle...

All of my dear ones off in pursuit of their various missions, separately or together, doing good or doing well or doing bot...

Pain comes predictably, Like rain. Like death. Like you moving me to tears. I will sit with you, if you will stay awhile. ...

   Every thing comes from some where, briefly abides and moves on to still another where and when, claims pronouns along the wa...

The University Cellar, maybe the only bookstore in the world founded because students got themselves arrested, born and gone in les...

On a mother’s day--2017 If the question is where love fits, then the answer must be a multiple, an integral and a sum, a rema...

I am tripping in plain sight. I write poems about survivors.  Here's one: Never Can Tell She wakes and feels this past lurking besi...

Heart, moon, breath and secrets— jackpot of life and greater than rubies for a silk-gowned queen— invested long ago in goddesses an...

So, Donald Trump has been elected president of the United States. Less than a week ago that hard reality landed on us with great weight and...

The thin skin inside the bend of the aging elbow throbs with the beat of staying alive, advancing, receding, collecting its...

Sonia Sanchez writes in "haikuography," the preface to her book, morning haiku , that "from the moment i opened that boo...

In the dark, silent house, the sound in your ears is the rhythm of always, the whisper of going, the hum of arriving, the an...

My Most Reliable Reader called me the other day. She was enjoying my poem,  The Transgressive Acts of Men , but she wanted a little more p...

by Charles Bukowski (who must be, in some important way, Denny Zappin’s spiritual doppelgänger) she came out at 9:30 a.m. in the mo...

One reliable path to a good mood, even to ebullience, is heading down hill at a fast clip. Picture the kids, sledding and m...

February 1, 2016 You have started work for the day, my boyo, my first born, my heart of my heart, my dig deep to discover that vein o...

This is not a poem. However much it may be that words may witness, this is not a poem. Witness lives lost, wasted, ground to ...

Twenty-two veterans a day contrive and execute their own death. And how many who try today will die tomorrow? A friend wri...

We had not intended to be here. Our goal was change the world, never to be merely chaperones at the end. But defeats and retrea...