It seemed to count down until / it was your time to have a funeral. / Now it was ticking for a new reason.

When I walk, or / when I talk, I keep / hearing phantom footsteps / or phone calls / from inside my bag or / my head.

How much did you say that paragraph weighed?

Muted burning headlights / Of tin can travelers / Forcing themselves through / A velveteen time of day.

One writer crafts an ode to Northwestern’s springtime tradition.

It’s more than a glance. One writer explores the meaning behind “the stare.”

Through 26 poems,
we explore NU (and yes,
they’re not true haikus.)

You are the subject of this poem. You are not the subject of this poem.

A poetic musing on the radio.

Poetry Monday takes a deeper look into the library and what hides beneath the surface.

To my old friend, whose name I see has changed, with marriage vows that I did not attend.

Rainy days and Mondays don’t have to get you down. One writer reflects on the finer qualities of this season’s source of aggravation.

Poetic reflections of a streetlamp.

A tree is a guardian, sentinel, marquis, a trustee over my good fortune.

A poetic take on looking out from behind windows.