Leonardo Da Vinci, took his place across the tiny aisle from me, and buckled the belt of his seat. I was certain it was him. Too timid to speak, I listened as he told... Read More

[caption id="attachment_18103" align="alignright" width="250"] Hasui Japanese Woodblock Print Shimoda 1937[/caption] The moon’s a fat convict of the stick-stalk trees then escapes, a desperado loose in the yard, a bruising undresser of raw light, naked of... Read More

We are grateful to be In a universe in which stars Are born and over time will die Giving forth the elements of everything. We are grateful to be On a planet orbiting a star... Read More

My Father Asks Me To Go To Church and write the day’s hymn numbers on a sheet of yellow paper. He read about a woman who won the Powerball this way. I take the paper,... Read More

This week’s poem is by Mario Dante Bartoletti, a retired psychologist from Georgia who is currently writing his memoirs. If you’d like to contribute original poetry to Humanist Voices in Verse, write to write@thehumanist.com with... Read More

This week’s poem is by Lydia Erickson, a writer of essays, poetry, short stories, blog posts, articles, and (hopefully soon) novels. She attends Boston University, where she is completing a Bachelors of Arts in English... Read More

Tell me about the vines of leaves crawling this brick wall. Explain by way of calculus their seasonal change— I want to know, too, a formula for counting the uncountable leaves and one more especially... Read More