Author: ps pirro

• The Breakup Poems

  My writing process is circuitous. It winds along rivers and wanders through woodland and ends up in back yards, usually my own. I seldom know…

• Ship of State

  Who knew it was all so fragile? The ship of state a houseboat of cards pontoon shantytown heaving in the hot humid bluster of a…

• Meditating with the Body

  One of the somatic meditations I recently introduced into my practice makes me weep uncontrollably, and because of this I don’t often attempt it, even…

• There’s a Crack in Everything

  Must the world always break our hearts? Maybe it must. Maybe it is the function of the world to break our hearts. To break us…

• Death Toll

  When the snow comes we stay in the house with mugs of strong tea and honey, fleece and flannel, buffalo plaid and log-cabin quilts, The…

• New Year’s Day

  After a week of grey skies and near-constant drizzle, the first of January is bright and blue, the air so crisp it snaps. In a…

• Sometimes Ashes, Sometimes Dust

  I’m reading Timothy Egan’s stark and unsettling story of the Dust Bowl years, The Worst Hard Time, an uneasy feeling keeping me company as I go.…

• Hard as That, Too

  Here is the part both hard and easy: When you see what’s missing and it’s all that you (simply) stopped doing while you went about…

• No Hard Feelings

  I. It’s the water that carries us, after all, like mermaids astride the glistening shell of the giant sea turtle, we are slippery wet, slick…

• Dust Filter

  I don’t know what to call this filter through which I’m seeing the world right now. Maybe it’s dust. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe I am…