western author

Monday Poems
6:00 am
Mon July 21, 2014

"Montana Inventory"

Richard Brautigan

At 85 miles an hour an insect splattered
like saffron on the windshield
and a white cloud in blue sky above the
     speed-curried bug

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Monday Poems
6:19 am
Mon July 14, 2014

"In A Field"

Here, in a field
Of devil's paintbrushes,
The circle of far trees
Tightens, and near bushes
Hump like ruins
When the moon floats loosely
Past the desolation
Owl moans wake. Here,
As if the world's
Last lovers, we
Have rung from the ruins
The whippoorwill's
Thrust of melody.
You have fallen asleep,
Breathing as the wind breathes
Among wetted thistle,
The scented vine,
And, listening, I move
My body toward you,
When a small convulsion
Shakes your hand,
The moonlight flashes

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Memoir
9:19 am
Wed June 4, 2014

Molly Caro May's Search for Place

The Map of Enough: a memoir by Molly Caro May

During this program, Molly Caro May talks about her nomadic childhood and her search for a place to "be from." She also reads from her new memoir, The Map of Enough: One Woman's Search for Place.

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Monday Poems
10:21 am
Mon May 26, 2014

"Beside the Road While Our Nation Is at War"

Kim Stafford
Credit writer, western U.S., poet

In our son's young hand,
borrowed from the ground in California,
five acorns glisten and roll.
"Dad! These could be bullets!
Will you help me make a gun?"

His eyes look up into mine.

"Or Dad! They could be magic
seeds! Will you help me make
a bag with a hole—so
they drop along the path
and grow?" I take his hand in mine.

"Little friend, we must decide."

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Poetry and Prose
6:19 am
Thu April 24, 2014

Paul Zarzyski Compares Writing Poetry to Riding Rodeo Broncs

Steering With My Knees, poems by Paul Zarzyski
Credit poetry, western author, bronc riding

During this program, Paul Zarzyski talks about and reads from his latest collections of poetry and prose, Steering With My Knees and 51: 30 Poems, 20 Lyrics, 1 Self-Interview, both published by Bangtail Press.

Including:

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Monday Poems
6:05 am
Mon April 21, 2014

"Parowan Canyon"

So Quietly the Earth, poems by David Lee

When granite and sandstone begin to blur
and flow, the eye rests on cool white aspen.
Strange, their seeming transparency.
How as in a sudden flash one remembers
a forgotten name, so the recollection.
Aspen.

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Memoir
6:00 am
Thu April 17, 2014

"Clark Rockefeller" Fools Seasoned Journalist

Blood Will Out: The True Story of Murder, a Mystery and a Masquerade, a memoir by Walt Kirn

Walter Kirn talks about and reads from his memoir Blood Will Out: The True Story of Murder, a Mystery and a Masquerade.

About the Book:

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Monday Poems
9:13 am
Mon April 14, 2014

Flood Song

Flood Song, poetry by Sherwin Bitsui

He wanted to hold back gas-soaked doves with a questioning glance;
he wanted the clock to tick, downwind from this gavel and pew,
from this leash, bucket, drainpipe, and mildewed cracker,
from the mind's muddy swan served on a platter with lemon rids,
from spiders scurrying over its bone-polished surface,
from crosshatches punched into its shredded time card,
from the desert near the tree line where the molting must have begun,
where crushed bodies heave warm, jellylife,
in the thicket at the foot of the wandering,

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The Write Question
6:43 am
Mon April 7, 2014

"The Moment"

Jane Hilberry

In those days, Betty Crocker
always called for sifted flour, and so
in homes across America, women sifted.
When my mother's mother turned
the wobbly red knob, hulls and stones
jumped in the wire basket,
but by my mother's time
the flour was fine—
now women sifted to achieve
precision, purity, perfection.
It made the white flour whiter.
Then flour came in bags,
already sifted, and women stopped
making their own cakes and bread,
and didn't have time anyway
for sifting. But for a flicker

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Monday Poems
6:42 am
Mon March 31, 2014

"Spring"

H. L. Hix

Five first crocuses burst into bird-brilliant bloom
and suddenly everything flies: behind a car
ascraps of paper rise, two from a flock, startled dumb.
Some lives begin in abstraction; others end there.
If I find the child's fist this universe bloomed from
I will close it again as my own five fingers,
say worlds as one sentence, fit them into a name
for gold overwhelming finches, feather by feather.
With leaves returned, we still hear birds bu see them now
only when they fly. It's hard to see anything,

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