Of Philip Levine and The Water's Chant

A clear mountain stream in the High Sierras.

Seven years ago I went into
the High Sierras stunned by the desire
to die. For hours I stared into a clear
mountain stream that fell down
over speckled rocks, and then I
closed my eyes and prayed that when
I opened them I would be gone

Hannah Rodrigues On Keeping Warm in Winter

Baby, it's cold outside.

It all started
on the 11th of November...
when you have to keep warm
for the winter hibernation.

Happy New Year y Gracias to the Writers of Bar None Group for 2018!

Our journey this year began on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico.

What an incredible year!

The first days of 2018 were spent in Mexico along the Sea of Cortez and the last moments of 2018 are spent anticipating family visits. Thank you to all of you who have read, contributed, inspired and shared the words within the pages of the Bar None Group this past year.

Happy New Year to:

Max Ehrmann's Desiderata: The Christmas Poem that Wasn't

One time presidential candidate, Adlai Stevenson had planned to use Desiderata in his 1965 Christmas cards.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

The Eight Most Popular Poems and More from 2018

Here's to smooth sailing in 2019.

These are the poems, essays and more that resonated the most with you our readers in the past year.

The Savior Must Have Been A Docile Gentleman

A Christmas poem by Emily Dickinson.

The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—

Christmas Blues of a Young Woman or A Charlie Brown Christmas?

This is not A Charlie Brown Christmas character. We don't have the rights to them.

“I think there might be something wrong with me
Christmas is coming,
But I’m not happy
I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel

They Were Alone in the Winter

A poem for the first day of winter.

Each night, I braid my daughter's hair.
My fingers slip through the thick silkiness,
weaving the strands into a single black stream.

"The air feels like something will happen,"
she says. "Maybe it will snow."