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Farm Workers’ Quarters

Farm Workers’ Quarters pre-dawn colours, crêpe sky. daybreak unfurls, edges out sleep. empty thermos, chai on the propane stove, jars of spices, crude shelves, a bucket of flour next to the mattress on the floor. a rope across this one-room life sagging with drying clothes, dignity. through thin walls, rustle of others in rooms next

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Cool Summer Nights

Denver Juvenile Hall 1974 The cabin is in Big Sur. Tucked in the woods. After a long day of hiking and a hot shower it’s so warm and cozy to sit around and drink hot chocolate by the fireplace. There’s no TV in the Big Sur cabins but who needs TV when you got a

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Florida

Florida By: Raveena Duggal I want a change of scenery, I want to be able to clear my mind, I want to feel unlimited happiness, I want to travel, I want to travel south, Where warm air shifts through the trees, Where birds are chirping, Where the sky shines a bright blue, I want to

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Getting fresh air

Getting Fresh Air By: Diya Duggal I would rather be somewhere else, Then sitting here by myself, Outside looks like a blast, I hope Covid won’t last, I can’t wait to see my family, They are nice, amazing and lovely We will go on a beautiful trip Probably using the Disney ship We’d love to

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Call For Submissions: Anywhere But Here

Call For Submissions: Uproar is looking for submissions related to the theme “Anywhere But Here.” You can interpret this theme as you choose, be it travel pieces, places you would like to go, a change of scenery, a different state of mind or situation. We are looking for high quality poetry, prose, spoken word, and

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Cabin Fever

  A bitter, stupid wind blows over the ridge and down through the pines surrounding our cabin. It is purposeless. The snow has already been scoured from the frozen soil, and the temperature is dramatically below freezing so we’re not going outside, anyway. This wind doesn’t even whistle through the boughs; it just creates a

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Winter

  Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,

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Anchors

Anchors These January days are longer, sun higher, snow melts off the slope so drip, drip, drip down the spikes before cold nights turn them rigid and they fringe the roof – fingers pointing at inefficient heating, ventilation, ice dams, loosened shingles. But this afternoon they wax poetic – prisms of light along the eaves,

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Miscarriage

Miscarriage February 9th again, and once again I lose the baby, a fog of nose and arms and legs— a world not sea-blue, but blood-red, full of volcanic beginning. Ending in February: bark-littered snow, limb-battered oaks. A split-stripped weeping willow creaks. Once it seemed I could hold what was needed to swaddle nothing into something—something

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Cleveland Haiku 618-622

Seasonal speed bump— large clump of rock salt in the road January— skyscraper tops shrouded in snow January, yet no one on the sledding hill January— one man, one dog on the beach January— wind-driven whitecaps on the still-unfrozen lake

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