A Metaphor For Us All: Jacqueline Czel's "The Honeybee"
and all too often
I sit and wait
slow red lights
archaic life forms
retired old ladies
make me late.
my honey comb
who wads up
bits of padded
to pay for
a vassal's needs.
my busy swarm
my cubed place.
as I productively;
until the day
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Shan Ellis Gives Us Her New Poem, "Crumble"
No instruction booklet.
Fumbling in darkness, awkward
like thirty something year old babes
listening for the knowing click
of the child proof lids.
A little adrenaline perhaps?
our hands found each other
strangely shy without
urge of teenage hormones
wafts of warm
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In Her New Poem, Poet Stefanie Bennett Mourns A Loss
Temperance: Osip Mandelstam
Most gracious is
— Leaf of the outer limits.
Grave is the perpetual
"Tristia's" black resin.
Ever near is
The Arcanum lore...
And tender is
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Read the story of the Russian poet Osip Mandelstam. You can read some of his poems in translation here.
We Welcome Poet Richard Biddle To The Pages Of VerseWrights
Slowly padding over
Every curve or jut
nudging my exposed tread
with its knotted emotions,
like knuckles kneading dough.
They are the dead
these sea-shaped stones.
Each carved capsule
a body's history.
I want to swallow them all.
I pick up a green one
Drop it on my tongue
Toss back my head
Gulp and its gone
One for joy
One for grief
One for a brief glimpse
of a forgotten moment.
I grind these feelings
beneath my bare feet
and stare at the sun's
departing white glare
Nothing here is real.
crushing and crashing.
One for fear
One for bliss
One for pain
One for loss
I step and step and step
All becomes sand.
My walk softens.
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Jessica L. Davis: Haiku and Shorter Poems
sun loses height
into black hungry arms
her east darkens
when it is enough
to be held by blue perfection
through pines’ lashes
kiss her eyelids
and color each cheek
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Jerry Danielsen's Poem, "The Little Chair," (With Video)
The Little Chair
Held up a man
who spoke to himself
as he typed
into a laptop
And the little wooden chair
didn't know about
And she wondered
why these things
are more important
than her mother tree
Just so a man
can sit on her
while talking to himself
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
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Witty Fay Gives Us Her New Poem. "Eudaemonia"
This is a gracious lesson
On how to love me less,
For in soothing you,
My heart shall no longer
Crave the beat of the day.
First, bury my face
Under piles of other stories,
Eye-catching and promising.
Fade my eyes into oblivion,
Breaking the sockets open,
And wasting their glow.
Sprinkle salt on all
So that the taste of me
Shall no longer numb your days.
Shape me into
A cunning, all-too-loving
Creature of the flesh and silver.
As for the heart
-mine or yours-
Smoke it into cinders,
And wither the flame
Into clouds of fire flies.
Yes, pick a summer night,
For the morning shall clad
Me into a burst of glee,
And your freed spirit
Shall be my reward.
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A New Lyrical Poem From Poet Edjo Frank
I touch her lily skin
she feels cold, I feel rejected
sweat beads on my arms
no final words are said
leaving helplessness behind
no sound, no movement
bedroom frozen in sunbeams
my eyes rest on the field bouquet
showing shameless beauty
instead of dreadful mourning
a snakelike flower smiles
I tear the white petals
the nakedness of her yellow heart
looks at me, bewildered
in the palm of my hand
horror screams escape my breast
drift silently on the wind
to shores I know of former times
where innocence saturates the soul
and love knows no restraints
I take my coat, I close the door
fists clenched in pockets deep
emphasize the failure of a row
the body has a way ahead
the mind ceased long ago
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Two Short Poems From Two VerseWrights Poets
The Circle Turns
~ by John Alwyine-Mosely
I'm from a village built on blood and sweat so the old ones say
where mother and father played at weekend love
and kids sniffed out the lonely to hold with terrier teeth.
Friends were made by page and word
to talk away the bruise and make
shouts a war cry in distant lands.
Today, that past is embers
ready to burn bright a page or word
so the old ones say.
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A Wrong Interpretation
~ by Natalie Keller
The kind of rain she stands in
requires no umbrella; her job,
simply, to get soaked -
mine, to write about it.
The elements love her, love to know
that someone like her exists.
My pen loves her,
loves to know that a love
like that is worth existing.
The storm is her monologue;
the world spends its time wrongly
interpreting it, but she forgives it
enough to go on repeating.
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Sensory Memory Drives This Lyrical Poem By John Blair
Cowgirl Cinnamon Rolls
Margaret, you stoke the cook stove
fragrant pine kindling, radiant tinder
shiny black coal
I saddle the wheeled bier
with your plain pine casket
and remember cowgirl cinnamon rolls
you hold out your palms
olive face unwrinkled
dark eyes serene
your breath crimson, your hair
an ebony streaked gray
cascading down your back
the well-brushed sheen
shares vermilion hues
from mortician’s plump wife
flutter like roped butterflies
warm milk dawns pink
mixed with flour, you push down
my turn to pull, fold, flatten
it feels alive, fluid
we sprinkle sugared raisins
roll the long end
find a thread to cut rounds
a winged white Cadillac
moseys lariat curves
you lead us to the cemetery
yeast and cinnamon
begged from the oven
warm and sticky rolls
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A Not So Seasonal Poem, From Kathleen Rogers
Ghost of Christmas Past
Hanging up my Christmas stocking
Angry with my mother’s mocking
Neighbors gathering and gawking
Mother’s body cops are chalking
She won’t laugh again
She won’t laugh again
Ghost of Christmas Present
Daughter sparkles hope and light
Our beloved Christmas sprite
Christmas Eve a joyful night
Christmas day is her delight
She won’t hurt at all
She won’t hurt at all
Ghost of Christmas Future
Left behind and all alone
Christmas in a nursing home
Far away my child has grown
Busy family of her own
Please just pull the plug
Please just pull the plug
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"His Voice," A New Poem From Charlie Brice
~for Phil Druker
Tea warms my throat
brings belonging grounding
the sense of home--
but does Phil, dying
of cancer, feel this?
Does a man loosed
know or care
about the pleasures
of home? Or is he
leaving home waiting
to abandon that alluvial
gobbet called “I,”
that rickety shack of self
once strong and stark
like the shimmer
from a highway baking
in the sun?
The countdown the march
beating drum down
of a ticking clock thread
that leaves the spool bare.
We hadn’t spoken for forty years.
Now his voice isn’t
his own, but a timbre
of unimaginable suffering:
the sonorous dissonance
of anti-nausea meds--
no longer his voice,
but that voice.
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jacob erin-cilberto Returns, With His Newest Poem...
the writing on the wall
with jangling syllables in its pocket
in a dark subway station---
the flashing figurative language
posing an enticing threat
we get hammered on rhyme
then drop a dime in the slot
to take the ride
mugged by morose meaning
hidden under a trench coat
of tyrannical rants
i saw you get off, carrying your terse verse
beneath spelunking semantics
knowing it wasn't the dangerous city of cause
you were scared of,
it was that the train might pause
at my station,
and you were afraid you might aim
your love at me
and pull the trigger.
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E. Michael Desilets Captures One Moment in Dublin
There were a few old copper coins
on the cardboard, a flat piece of waste
from The Dessert Place. The girl's
feet were bare and grimy, her gritty eyes
the color of the river, the coins,
the shawl draped forever over her
The crossing was deserted now,
but the buses would be unloading soon
a block away, and the ensuing jingle-jangle
of coin on the carton would take her mind
away from the cold. She stuck her thumb
into her bucktoothed face and tried
to burrow into the old woman's
..........Today the river made no noise.
Later, she thought, she would walk on the water
as far as the Ha'penny Bridge. It would be dark
then, the fog laced with ice, trash rattling
in the alleys, after her grandmother slid
back from the bake shop muttering as always
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Johannes Bjerg Returns With An "Ocular" Poem
a dry rustling of wings
against the windows
of my eyes
I couldn't swim in
but wherein the sun
and the stars threw
bits of themselves
to blind me
in this hall
the night is
there's an organ playing
the deep notes only
it's the basic web
surrounding, nay, besieges
the budding lotus
in the seahorse's pond
'keep your mind in hell
and fear not' he said
staring at his saviour
through the demons
filling his cell
with a fraction of his faith
I could get out of bed
and into the gondola
going down the lachrymal canal
under the Bridge of (my) Sighs
in a corner of my room
a spider plays his mandolin
in praise of tiny flies
and God's saints
in a very
all is good
Read this poem in a bilingual presentation
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Robert King Lets Us In On The Secret
The Secrets of Children
We were always wanting to find
the secret, a secret, some such thing
as secret. Gloried in our hiding,
the way children will, where no one
knew, invisible in our holes,
our bushes, woods, under the porch.
Gleeful, we giggled at the way
the world went on, oblivious
we were gone. This was funny then.
We didn’t realize that was how
it would always be. We’d found
the secret. And didn’t know it.
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Reka Jellema's "Hunkered," With a Reading By J Matthew Waters
we hunkered down in the unholy holes behind newsprint
sleeves rolled all Wall Street
all auto mechanic
all greased & slicked
we hack-sawed concrete sidestepped knapsacks
asleep on park benches
we fouled pinafores spoke in pinpricks
pacifiers planted in pie-holes
we watched you evanesce with panache
we watched cocked and maned we watched
one thumb with silvery polish roll into a ditch
tin can cocktail weenie
boiled pigs feet
we hunkered down in a moshpit of unclaimed legs
& crumpled bits
labia in pubic nests
ear lobe potato chips
a wad of chewed bubble gum
the color red
no one will ever read this
turn it off
your boy spilled Tinker Toys
dropped an f-bomb
we eye-rolled handed off
we tuned in
we hunkered down -- hamboned the gig
riffed & licked
chopped chords heads rolled spurt spurt
a kneecap snapped like a forest twig
we jukeboxed -- hair stiff on her cheek
an eye adrift sky-ward as-if
oh heavens above
while the doc dug earth from a socket with a toothpick
we hunkered down dirt-nailed hammered-home
wanted something to stick
in our hole
what we did to fill ourselves
what we did
missed our femurs our metatarsals
we missed our spleens our tongues our tonsils
we off-handed those harelipped kids
those kids flew into the vast indifference
those kids landed piecemeal
the Barbies we threw splayed
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Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters
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David Chorlton's Latest Poem, "Okay"
Two men cast a single shadow
at noon on Fifteenth Avenue. They could
be balancing at oblivion’s edge;
the younger struggling to support
his friend as they slow dance to the sound
the traffic makes, passing the waste lot
where at first they appear to be fighting
but anyone close can see the effort
one makes to keep the other on his feet,
raising him by the arms before
he lets them go and stands back
while the other stumbles forward
with his legs growing shorter at each
of the five steps he attempts
before he is on his knees and unable to stop
his face from touching down
between dead grass and stones.
He rolls to one side, revealing his eyes
which roll as he is lifted again
and stands with his palms
open to receive the blessing of the sky
before his knees give way and it changes
place with the ground, the bus stop circles
his head, the double yellow lines peel
away from the middle of the road
and wind around the sun as it tumbles
to the pavement. No one on the street
appears concerned. I approach the men, venturing
a question as to the fallen one’s wellbeing
and offering to call Emergency. The upright one
takes a deep breath before the next lift,
his strength clearly challenged, but his patience
intact. He’ll be fine, he says, hauling the weight
with one arm now around his shoulder
as a labourer might carry a gunny sack.
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How It Was, How It Is: A Poem From E.H. Ford
Why should city birds bother
to plume and preen?
Uncaring generations of earth ....keepers
have fouled the air so permanently
even they can no longer breathe it.
Birds realized this long ago
discarding colorful plumage for
an urban cloak of blue-black.
Now you tell me you saw a
white pigeon yesterday,
And I will observe, “Yes, but only one,
to remind us of how the world was meant to be,
before it was paved.”
You will nod, cough, and continue
down the path.
I will smile and won’t;
strolling back toward my serene
cottage overlooking the sea.
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A Dark Metaphor From the Pen Of Neil Fulwood
This is not Adlestrop. No birds singing
and whether the dull parallel of the rails
ends up in Oxfordshire or Gloucestershire
is anyone’s guess. It’s dark and I can’t see
the end of the platform. It rained earlier.
The service was delayed shortly after
the view stopped being worth the gift of sight.
Two hours between a sewage treatment plant
and a haulage yard and it wasn’t even like
the trucks were those big gleaming rigs
you’d imagine hauling dangerous loads
across Alaska. Now I’m here, standing
on platform zero and it’s either the railway
equivalent of Bruckner’s 'die Nullte' or
my second-class Twilight Zone ticket
has brought me to the start of a journey
I never took. Either way, the café’s closed.
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Greet Our New Poet On VerseWrights: Amauri Solon
gently landed on my window sill
I woke up
and sat on my wheelchair
near the window
a clear invitation for a chat
then occurred a long
We chatted on and on
about things that matter
and trifling events that do not
We chatted about trees
high branches and flowers
a long argument arose
quite well settled an hour later
flying at dawn
right in the direction of the rising sun
or at early night moon-bound
that was the question
We chatted about forests and rivers
at winter time, spring, summer and fall
autumn leaves or green grass
multi-coloured flowers or snowwhite fields
oh, long lost hours of quiet conversation
no preferences established
ending in harmonious
We chatted on animals in general
furry wild beasts, featherly creatures, crawling ones
and galloping horses
small and large
tiny and tall
singing birds and men
not so easy to talk about
subtle glances exchanged
said it was break time
both of us parted
the goldfinch took a straight up flight
I whirled my wheelchair
back to bed
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Bethany Rohde's Poem Adds Perspective To This Day
Over the Crowd
The slow work of defrost now fans across
my breath-covered windshield.
I force my hands deeper down
into their pockets. Fingertips jam
against the receipt-scraps of my evening.
I catch some movement through the glass: a girl,
half the height of a Christmas tree.
She's crawling up into a window display
that's advertising: Buy
one get one free.
Her face is fixed on a tidy pyramid of ornaments.
They almost match her earmuffs
of candy apple red.
She's hanging the globes, shoulder to shoulder, on one
With her back to the ever-scrolling crowd
(which does not see her either)
she dots the flocked tree with color.
I leave my car in park.
She's making room for the last of the baubles,
while occasionally sweeping their price tags
just out of her eyes.
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All New Poems In English And Croation From Milenko Županović
rain has washed
while on the ground
waiting for God
to take it
in the arms
who had it spilled
kiša je oprala
dok na zemlji
čeka Gospoda svog
da ga odnese
koji su ga prosuli.
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It Is Between Time In This Poem From Lauren Lola
Blue bay hills appear on the horizon
of the emerging night sky
as the sun fades away
and the rain clouds hang around
The water is still
the city lights twinkling
and the one lone plane
makes its way across the
light yet dark sky
This is a trance between time
a lingering moment between what has come to pass
and has yet to come
There is a word for this in Tibetan
The blue bay hills are visible now
but soon will not be
but they remain without question
All is mission
all is seen
all is tranquilly taken in and accepted
as I stare from this library window
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From Kelli Russell Agodon's Waltz Series...
Slow Waltz on a Hike with Damp Butterflies
What you unwrap is box
of yellowjackets, stinging
nettles, and jellyjars
becoming broken glass.
This is not for the cottonhearted.
This is for the man who holds fire
between his fingers and calls it love.
We are burnt
toast and prism jam.
We are rubbing ourselves with the underside
of a fern trying to make the stinging stop.
There are remedies everywhere--
from beekeeper’s honey to handmade soap
—we are what we keep near our skin.
We are the stained
towels we carry and the sainted
bohemian monarchs that can’t fly.
Or don’t want to.
I place the constellations in my hand, then
complain about the burning. Life sparks,
weighs me down when I am tired.
Let’s not say we have rocks
in our pockets. Though I pretend I am
the novelist and you are the river.
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We Welcome Poet Ali Znaidi To The Pages Of VerseWrights
in sleek satin.
of a blonde.
a glass of red wine: a "Vispo"
Cathedrals: Two Poems From Katherine Gallagher
The spires lean
into the air
touch the blue inside
of the sky
about to lift the world
off its knees
The Long Reach Out of War
They will keep restoring the glass
in broken cathedrals
to carry the eye and the colours
that were shattered
They will keep restoring the stone
in bombed cathedrals
to carry the face and the idea
that were crushed
They will keep carrying the burden
of destroyed cathedrals
even as the ashes blow back
keeping faith with itself
even as the ashes blow back
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Between Two Worlds In Tim Buck's "dazzle"
A boy asleep and turned to dreams
in the backseat of a car on vacation
in 1958 to Lake Greeson in Arkansas...
and he wakes up to his father's, “There's the lake!”
But he looked out and he saw
from a height and through trees
an unusual thing of a certain blue --
not a color belonging to any water.
That plasma hue was beyond Bermuda
or the bright turquoise of South Sea atolls.
What he saw was dreamstuff residual
and blended into a moment of waking --
a confusion of worlds, a mystic marriage
of water that lay and layering of marvelous.
It never happened again that two dimensions merged.
The boy was caught forever between life and otherness.
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Ana Caballero's Latest Poem: "A Notion of Marriage"
A Notion of Marriage
Because I am a poet,
I read about things like the center of skin.
About warm bodies coming together in the dark,
and how it’s the meaning of life
when someone gets it right.
And I know I should write about things
like a moving chest and a naked back.
About the coming together of life in the dark,
about our common desire
and the verbs that it took.
And it should be universal,
My moving chest, your naked back.
The notion of marriage,
of children, of daily love.
beneath the surface of
different meaning words.
But I don’t see the dark jaw
in the night,
or the soft center of touch spring alive.
There is effort and a plan.
There is marriage,
a shrinking room,
and a baby that eats time.
We do not say flesh when we mean sex.
We say it’s about right.
And, it would be nice.
We confirm how long it’s been
before we ask the other
to get up and make the bedroom
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From New England? A Poem from Michael Lee Johnson
If You Find No Poem
If you find
no poem on
in the morning,
no paper, no knock on your door,
your life poorly edited
but no broken dashes
or injured meter
you do not wear white
satin dresses late in life
embroidered with violet
flowers on the collar;
nor do you have
across main street,
no one whispers
in your ear, Emily Dickinson-
you feel alone--
but not reclusive--
the sand child
still sleeping in your eyes-
wiping your tears away--
if you find
no poem on
you are not from New England.
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VerseWrights Welcomes Poet Kristin Maffei
Now, I can’t fathom a New York before roads.
When I read the Wappinger tribes lived
east of the Hudson to the Taconic Mountains
I see the highway, train tracks
the mall where I bought my first earrings.
I see satellite rivers on computer maps.
Panting against the cold air,
red-eared, I hiked those hills.
I saw a bear once, and a moose,
countless turkeys, deer.
On a class trip, we wandered a longhouse in a museum.
Inside a plaster Iroquois woman crouched bare-chested
beside imitation flame, imitation papoose hanging on the ....wall.
I made a model out of spaghetti, coffee grinds, leather ....scraps.
So easy to cook the new world foods: corn, beans, ....squash
but not to imagine the river Mahicanituk
without nuclear power plant on its shores.
Less easy to find arrowheads in your yard
but not impossible – who didn’t hang a dreamcatcher
in their rearview, wear moccasin driving shoes?
Who wasn’t in some way touched
by a feathered headdress set in a gold class ring
or else the man in loincloth dropped from a helicopter
hand to mouth running around the football field?
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