December 5-11, 2005: Rachel Phillips and Deborah Stinson

week of December 5-11, 2005

Rachel Phillips and Deborah Stinson

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Rachel Phillips

Bio (auto)

Living in Los Angeles, Ca , I own and operate a small healthcare business and spend my time inventing, writing and painting. 

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Rachel Phillips and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Now immortalized,
such an evening
creped in blue soil,

shaken down
from white bough-

crashed to flesh…

velvet blood
flown from cave,

a hidden grove
undraped, defiled…

poison sprayed
on flower,

milk-rust dried
at the bottom
of a tiny cup-

handfuls of sweet grain


Outlasting Moths

A season of antiquity,
the marrow of a long, thigh bone-


gnawed thin by large grey moths…

(old men, young men)

see how light continues
to stray through each
worm-eaten portal

(the exact point at which desire
enters and exists the body)

continues its journey

long after the roaring wings
of nocturnal insects

have fallen silent.

Through a Window

At last, I came to a stopping place,
a period at the end
of a long nonsensical sentence

like a worn strand of rope
before it separates completely…

or the final step into darkness
In the morning, it begins again,
the soul everyday astounded
by narrow shafts of sun

pouring in through a small window.

Deborah Stinson


Mature creative writing student, mother of three grown children working on perfecting my writing with a concentration in free verse Aspirations include obtaining an MFA, publishing a book of poems and teaching creative writing A few of my poems have been published in Perigee:  A publication for the Arts and The Independent Collegian, the university paper where I took first and second place in the poetry contest and in The Dande Review I live in Oak Harbor, Ohio and attend The University of Toledo, Toledo, OH
Visit Deborah on the web here:

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Deborah Stinson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


meeting at night
on the vacant lakeshore road
we’d walk three miles or so
down the stretch of curving sand
while the moon smiled down
daytime was another life

best kept put away holding hands or leaning lazily
against the other
warm air blanket to the chill
the hours before midnight
long enough or not
were all we had
could ever have
summer ran too swiftly out no prolonging it
despite the ache
to seize it now and then
the rush of it returns
on moonlit nights
in the glimmer between trees.

For Your Next Sculpture

you could chisel me,
one arm behind my back,

the broken pieces of my heart
palmed as meager offerings of friendship

or capture that green tint
of horror in my face
when laid open and exposed;

you could carve pain
into some benevolent expression

mold my feelings into
something more concrete

reveal who I am
with your artist’s eye

perhaps create
an exquisite statue.


on a greyhound bus
at thirteen
shuffled between parents

I met the first man
other than my father
to disappoint me

he had assured me
he’d watch my case
but stole my jewelry instead

perhaps to temper
some other woman’s naive heart
to forgiveness
while being ignorant of mine

looking back I see
I was not so much the loser
as she

nor am I so inclined to forgive

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