2018 curt johnson prose awards. 2018 Jeff Marks Memorial Poetry Prize. 2018 curt johnson prose awards judges. We are pleased to announce our judges for the 2018 Curt Johnson Prose Awards. We are grateful for all our contributors.

Used with permission via CreativeCommons License. What We Dream of When We Look at Forever, Porn, Santa Monica. Yoga Mats, Firing Platforms. The Profane Nonfiction Prize Winner.

Issue 2, Summer 2012. Issue 3, Fall 2012. Issue 4, Winter 2012-13. Issue 5, Spring 2013. Issue 6, Summer 2013. Issue 7, Fall 2013. Issue 8, Winter 2013-14. Issue 9, Spring 2014. Issue 10, Summer 2014. Issue 11, Fall 2014. Online magazine for short, good writing. From Sean Pravica, author of A PSA About Love. Is based on one of these people. They remind me of my in-.

By naming his new collection. NARANJA DEL DESEO ORANGE OF DESIRE. Una naranja in the forbidden.

The Dandelion Farm Review, Spring 2013. An Online Journal of Fine Poetry. Growing tomatoes in the Northwest is humble work, starting seed in late February, carrying the seedlings to the greenhouse each morning, bringing them back into the warmth of my home at night, babying them. I sing to them in the morning. A few days ago it snowed. Yesterday it was seventy-five in the greenhouse. Spring on the Olympic Peninsula. And today, as I gather another issue of poets, I think of how raising tomatoes can teach .

The study, art, and appreciation of poetry.

You, at the Beginning. The Wild Takes Its Place. The Resonance of the Creation. A Frame for the Kneeling. All or Not At All. All or not at all. What breeds hesitation in you? What holds back a hand that wants to knock, a smile that wants to break wide and warm the room, a foot that picks up, wanting to walk straight across the room to the hurt in another? I have spent the last year digging through ashes. And learning, seeking, searching, just what it means to love.

PORTLAND, OR Come if you can. New anthology and everything cover art. Originally posted on The Friday Influence. Oaring Sam Roderick Roxas-Chua In a shallow bay, my father is slumped inside a black raft, arms flung over each side, fingers flicking the water.