Jennifer Frost Writes
“We write to create the books that we would like to read, that haven’t yet been written—possibly.”—Joyce Carol Oates
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Elegy for My Father
by Jennifer Frost
You are fifteen years gone. My grief is almost old Enough to drive a car. You loved a fast Car with the white top down, chrome and cobalt, Candy shine like a raspberry sucker.
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Girl, Writer
by Jennifer Frost
20 January 2026 I used to bask like a cat on a sunny window sill in Mom’s bright yellow kitchen, a daisy-wallpapered haven from the moody Iowa weather and our creaking wood-frame house, haunted somehow, remnants of bad nights and sad scenes hanging like cobwebs in the corners. In the other world of the yellow…
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Word to the Wise
by Jennifer Frost
If you stray between the corn rows, you’ll get Lost. A baby near here died that way; her Name was Gretel.
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Wisconsin
by Jennifer Frost
Along a gravel road, there lay a farm, A range of ground owned by my relatives. Their kitchen overlooked the bottom field Where hay grew silver-green around the barn
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Streets of Sorrow
by Jennifer Frost
18 October 2022 “‘Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass, there stood a ten-foot high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out…
Jennifer Frost Writes 