Edjo Frank: The River And The Passage
pain arrives in waves
washing the shores of my breast
reminds me it is time
to cross the holy river
into the unknown
so I count my breath
medicine men arrive
with bags of secret spirits
bring me to the house
where soft touching hands
reign and care
so I lay back and surrender
they watch and nurse
I wait and learn
the timetable of river crossing
in the power of
the great orchestrator
so they smile me home
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All New Haiku From Poet Chen-ou Liu
from Selected Haiku
on my graduation photo ...
my hands too
he said, she said
lingering in the room...
in a country church
the stale smell
a crow's cry
flies into darkness ...
alone with myself
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We Warmly Welcome Poet Gareth Spark To The Pages Of VerseWrights
The night has gone to the dogs
And the streets are all wet; they’re singing
In our favourite bar, a song about bones
And we’re feeling the way we felt when lightning
Hit the trees that time, and we’re arm in arm
And not caring who sees,
And the entire world is dark and wet.
Men and women watch
Through the windows of the restaurant
As we dance and fall against a phone-box
In the light from an all-night bookmakers
Where they bet on steeplechases and football games,
And have beautiful lists of horse‘s names;
I squint across your shoulder
And see faces beneath the phantom shine
Of humming fluorescent tubes:
Red eyes caring forever, patience for the end,
old jackets, and no love;
And it strikes me then
So we stop
And stare hard into a night that has burned out
Into steam from the restaurant roof
and into curses from the street:
There is no love, where there needs to be,
There is no love.
Only the memory of something that might have been
of burning days
When the whole world
Was a long street,
A garden and a room.
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Roslyn Ross And The Turmoil Of
Two Poems, Two Windows, Two Poets
L.L. Barkat Shares Two Short, Sensual Lyrics
On Belleview Avenue
Japanese, I suspect,
as in split maple, as in
it takes a hundred years
to snake these arms to such breadth; anyway, it seems everything
must have been leading to this juncture--
droughts, floods, springs coming
too early, everything conspired towards this:
snow, like white butterflies, laid
over old curves, dead leaves, intersections,
now ready to soft wing
the empty night.
Remind me, would you,
to buy more of the Peach Momotaro,
with its images of waterfalls, lichen-toned
terraces, waves of mountains imprinted
with dots, little white flowers, and mist.
When I drink it, and the steam enters me,
I think of you and the water feels as if
it’s pouring over the mountains.
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Ali Znaidi Has A Wakeup Cawl For You
The crow lands on a bare bough
of the tree of your obsolete childhood.
The leaves rush to cover up this nakedness.
On your way home
it’s mandatory to smile back
to the Janus-faced people.
The crow is taking over the
center and the edges of the bare bough.
Who knows what secrets
they conceal in their smiles.
The crow spreads
its wings against the tree, cawing at last.
your ears yearn for jazz.
your dejection returns, a certain urge
for panacea telling you:
stop talking on your mobile phone
& listen to the caws!
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Poet Lucy Logsdon Entertains
Richard Biddle Finds Much To Be Seen In A Drop Of Water
Rain that wept from the gutter last night
has slowed to a glycerin drip.
Now it comes, one clear tear at a time.
A perfect lens capturing a whole world
inside its micro-mirror, split second drop.
And just for a moment, I too am within its
And just for a moment, I too am clearly
seeing what isn't there.
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Two New Shorter Poems From Poet