A retelling of the Grimm brothers’ folk tale, “The fisherman and his wife”, for our times

One day Melania was walking along the beach wondering what to do about her husband. She was worried that he would not make it through another month, much less his term, without a miracle. While she was walking, feeling hopeless and deep in thought she came upon a beautiful iridescent fish that had been washed …

New poem


  Ink blot test Cross burnings Into a corner Black butterfly Voice of the little Pinball machine Suburban garage   The fourth world Day four anyone Familiar names Dogs and parakeets There’s more to it Those who lived Sense of rage   Sort of thing Had a modicum Clings to your finger Pull the cork …

The first argument

One morning, at breakfast,
Creator took a bite out of his toast.
He held it up to his wife proudly.
Moon, he said.
He took another bite.
Mushroom, he said.
His wife frowned.
He took another bite.
Anteater, he said.
And another: Acacia.
Now his wife glared at him.
Creator was squirming in his chair.
He had to pee.
He took several quick bites,
Leaving only the trunk
And a big bulb at the top
Before he hurried from the table.
Human, he said over his shoulder.
His wife stared at his plate.
I feel sorry for that skinny thing! she said.
And that giant brain is only going to get him in trouble!
She nibbled the top much smaller and sighed,
Not looking forward
To when her husband returned.

I'm ready

Ok, now I’m ready.
I’m breathing,
I’m thinking.
I’m waving to you.

There, you see me!

Now let’s look at each other.
You, over there,
me over here.

Now let’s wave to someone else.
Get their attention.
Shout if necessary.
Strike a cymbal.

they see me.
Does your person see you?
This is great, isn’t it?

Yeah, this is great.

New poem by TCBH!'s resident poet

The Bloody Gun

The soldier was tired of his bloody gun.
He saw a young stranger
And handed him the gun.
Here take this,
The stranger said,
I will take it, but what will I do with it?
The soldier had walked away.
I will give this gun to the ocean.
He gave the gun to the ocean.
I will take it but what will I do with it?
The stranger had walked away.
I will wash the blood off this gun,
I will give it to the depths.
Ocean gave the gun to the depths.
I will take it but what will I do with it?
The sea had closed its ears.
The depths held the gun for a hundred years.
I will give the gun to time.
Time said, I will take it
But what will I do with it?
The depths had closed its heart.
Time gave the gun to the reef.
I will take it, said the reef
But what will I do with it?
Time had passed on.
The reef held the gun for a thousand years
And then a thousand more.
Now the gun said,
I am tired of being a gun,
But what will I do with myself?
I will give myself to peace.
Peace said to the gun, I will take you.
I know what to do with you.
Peace held the gun tenderly,
Tenderly, tenderly,
Because the world had finally changed.
    –Gary Lindorff