Craig Kittner

Craig Kittner has lived a lot of places. Fourteen at last count. Providence saw the start of interesting things that DC helped solidify. He found expression through acting and painting over the years but has settled nicely into poetry since 2016. His work has recently appeared in Acorn, bottle rockets, Sledgehammer Lit, the Origami Poems Project, and The Main Street Rag, among others.

Wilmington, North Carolina is home now. It's kind of near the sea and full of light when the rain isn't falling. A good place to ramble and write. Craig is fond of birds, cats, and rain, but rarely writes of cats.

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► Craig Kittner's microchaps are available below. Download the single-page PDF by clicking the title & saving to your pc. Set your printer for 'landscape' printing. Folding instructions are under the Who We Are menu tab.

Origami Microchap
The Ticktockless Clock
Cover: Tulip Tree effect by JanK •	sunset on my audio display the ticktockless clock since I last thought to look tulip tree in full flower length of a worm in the robin's beak I check my pace my shadow and the tree's intertwine blue sky morning	late summer breeze the yet to resolve colors of this year’s juves old book a note falls into my lap windless afternoon the yellow passage of a butterfly fruit of summer’s ending they way two plums fill my hand	unmown grass the flowers that wouldn’t be desktop calendar reassurance “No more events today” fallen trumpet flower ants engaged in deconstruction last bit of red leaves the forest letting it go • Craig Kittner © 2022
The Cadence of My Return
Click title to download microchap Cover art by Craig Kittner •	What Did You Come Here to See? although I have a goal, I let my body collaborate with the ground to set my pace over the questing surface roots of trees yellow butterfly – again and again across my path skimming the warming earth on business all its own past pinecones in all conditions from just-fallen to stripped-bare while sunlight sets in motion the processes of sweat reaching the spot marked on the map I find nothing there and let it brush away the somethings that cling to me like burs the soft hammerings of woodpeckers count the cadence of my return	Not Enough Trees to form the concept of a forest, though enough to form a wall at the end of the road. Enough for a turtle nation, a birdcall compendium, the presence of wildness, the deliverance of stings that bring to an end the time of a winged thing. Let's call this a borderland, bounded at all times on all sides by the sound of mechanization. But there's trees enough to break the chill wind into thousands of whispers. Enough for the silence they make to make the racket of the squirrels sound clear, with the sun coming up behind, silhouetting foliage that echoes in the flight of crows. And everywhere there are cracks in the hard surface the world's laid down some form of green breaks out.	Leaving work the day after we set the clocks back in the sky, three bright stars aligned with the crescent moon though the star to the right is probably Venus maybe Jupiter and the leftmost could be Saturn but no matter knowing names not knowing them nothing changes all is motion, regardless bodies move into alignment and out of it, people have their time their knowing and their names some outlive them some they change for the purpose of revelation or concealment How many names have the killdeer had yet their call remains the same and moves the hearer or doesn't. At home, I spend some time with words written by the dead before adding what's come to me and falling silent. • Craig Kittner © 2021
acoss the day like honey
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover image by author •	no cream or sugar in the drive thru as rain clouds let loose for real not much else inside me except the burn of undigested news the arguments of crows as I cut off the radio - overcast sky waiting for the water to be warm enough - days of writing spent not writing and writing about nothing and the passage of years in minutes and minutes stretching out I don't know how long the past has been in the past or if it even matters without thought time gets deprived of its sting and flows across the day like honey every thought you have was had by another you or will be a thought is no singular thing it carries its baggage like we do	I've read a hundred spiritual books only to remember how to listen to birds and the wind – to read the stories written by trees with their branches scratching the sky deep in the woods I become aware of the smell of constant decay – fuel for unending beginnings all in stillness – with eyes closed – listening to the gurgle and suck as the forest drains itself of the rain that yesterday seemed unending it's good to remember this body is filled with empty space and it's fair share of water and the mind with everything else you think it is - leaf on the breeze the way my attention keeps floating back to me -	your voice sounds reasonable and by your words you seem to want what's best for me but, Google, I have no interest in your time-saving alternate route light from the winter-clouded sky – unvarying, undifferentiated – turns water to tarnished silver glowing amid the marsh grass what's it worth to miss this? your route is full of rushing havoc, and bullying impatience, mine takes me through a forest intersected by unpaved roads ready for when I need a rest under the trees – in stillness eyes soothed by woodland dusk ears lulled by primal wind-sound a pocketful of emptiness • Craig Kittner © 2021

Poets