Poetry

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Anton Chekhov

    Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over   you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself.  I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elations.
It’s as though I could fly.
Anne Sexton

Read poetry by Jan Marin Tramontano

Paternal Nocturne $14
Order Now from Finishing Line Press – January 2012

Woman Sitting in a Café $8

Java  Wednesdays $10 Floating Islands $10

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