Two Of Poet Evie Ivy's Latest Poems Rhythms
Why judge Whom you don’t know When you hear Half a story? I don’t know anyone. Who knows anyone? That’s why they’ll Say he was such a nice boy, After the fact. She was such a good mother, After the act. My heart pounds Yet strums the guitar. I don’t know anyone. I could only say I know A song, Music, A dance. Dreams There are dreams engraved in the mind morning did not have a chance to dispel from the real. You could bring them on, vivid pictures on the screen of memory. But some dreams fragment, move on out leaving behind sad or somehow felicitous feelings, but you can’t remember the dream. Its pieces flow with your sad or happy dream into a huge mental void that can match that of the universe, with your dream embossed on them. They float in so slightly uneven colored shreds - a lost work of art? Fragments of something have left you wondering whether it was an important piece or not... Read the poetry of Evie Ivy Read a profile of Evie Ivy We Warmly Welcome Poet Ken Slaughter to VerseWrightsfrom Selected Tanka and Senyru... blank squares in the crossword puzzle my brother left at the cancer clinic… answers we never find first date I ask if the dragonflies are mating on a cloudless night my friend points a finger at the Big Dipper… for most of my life I’ve followed the wrong star poems that are never written deep in the woods the song of a thrush Read the poetry of Ken Slaughter Read a profile of Ken Slaughter From Poet Matthew Henningsen:
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Lee Kisling And The Silence Of History Behind the Fence Rusted dinosaur innards behind that seven foot high wooden fence parked in immobilized rows, the junk cars sleep. The big-finned Pontiac, the drop-top LeSabre, smacked up, motors seized, abandoned and forgotten, these proud one-owner beauties, tires bald with worry. They are ashamed and therefore hidden from view. The lapse in attention – the fender, the fluids, the column of steam, the roadless wheel turning in the air. Skid marks, glass fragments, injuries. The Rambler, the station wagon bones, we mustn’t see them. They lie behind the wooden fence. Maybe a shade tree man in a ball cap, no good, finally, at fixing the mechanically expired, or it might have been a lemon – this place is the end of the road. Dragged behind the fence to bleach in the sun and settle into the dirt for years and years of quiet rest - horns still, radios dumb, collector coins deep in the upholstery. In blistered mirrors, objects may appear more distant in memory than they are, more silent than the stories they tell each other. Behind the fence the private battered cars lay low – the humpback Dodge, the flatbed Ford. We mustn’t see them. Read the poetry of Lee Kisling Read a profile of Lee Kisling Two New Poems From Poet Witty FayOf life A length of hair traded For the health of a child, Tongue-tied mornings That breathe of sweaty worry And the scent of hope Rising against the flimsy dawn. I hear color Fabricating foamy trolls Under caramel bridges, The way it modulates the eye In bright shades of bitterness. There lies the promise of a half-day On the sycamore tree Of flaking joys, Uprooted and swallowed Into the wombless fire Of the one who sells the mane To cheat fate. Cross-fingered Sweet chariots of glow Roll their roughness Sketching my limbs Into rivers of joy. As they grow on the root Of their aloofness, Sparkle and remote Hold the corners of the cross In cahoots with time. We stand stranded Behind the floating of the day, And the muteness of the night. Read the poetry of Witty Fay Read a profile of Witty Fay Poet Jill Lapin-Zell's Poem Asks A Most Human QuestionA Fundamental Question the afternoon’s turned cool and gray with cloud shadows and spring breezes oozing over the mountains like sweet honey from an over-filled jar and I’m wondering why we aren’t curled up with each other on a sofa legs entwined and heads together like children whispering outlandish secrets giggling the remaining day into night I want to reach out and touch you breathe in the scent of your hair feel the rhythm of your heartbeat as my lips rest against your temple these aching moments of missing you eat away at body, mind and spirit give rise to the fundamental question: can you come over to play tonight? Read the poetry of Jill Lapin-Zell Read a profile of Jill Lapin-Zell Poet Roslyn Ross Writes Of Leaving Malawi For Her HomelandLeaving The jacarandas are in flower as the blossoms fall purple, small deaths, sighing at the side of open suitcases, coming to rest in the dust of gathering memories, waiting to be packed along with the myriad possessions; dregs of life and tree, scattered in that song of inevitable ending, where what was, can be no more and what is, calls, in soulful whisper, reminding all is impermanent, nothing lasts, or can endure, beyond its allotted time and for the expatriate, there will always be a moment to go home, just as the tree sheds its beauty, making way for something new, and for that which is destined to come after - fated to the turn of the wheel of life, the eternal cycle, slowly spinning in silence, unseen, revolutions of days and minutes, dropping into the past, as the now rises in gentle roll, to the top of consciousness, holding for a brief reality, impressed as template of our being; so we begin and move to our created end, which has always been written even if we did not know it. Read the poetry of Roslyn Ross Read a profile of Roslyn Ross Two New Poems From Poet Ana Caballero Espiritu Santo Born of the first stone, I am witch: Spellbound by small elements, snails in the throat, birds on the lip. There is a hiding behind the trunk of a dead tree, a memory of morning, a reckoning. There are no men, no children. No women with soft worries. No confidences or shared will. But when I blow the lonesome wind, the wooded land breathes in. Together we become the ancient word, a god released. Who With The greatest thing about not loving you Is not giving time Leaving the view alone Lingering never The thought almost well Crafted It was a moment of smallness It can be described Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero Wayne F. Burke And An Aging SuperheroThe Sub-Mariner (Note: The Sub-Mariner was a Marvell Comics superhero, dating from 1939) The Sub-Mariner, 60-plus years old is sinking; he's still got the little wings and the Max Baer body but he's not as quick as he was and he's gulping for air some days though still powerful but routinely late now to the scene, like cops who stop for doughnuts, he gets there in his own sweet time, moving in like a manta ray with arms out-stretched like in a crucifixion only more symbol now than the real thing... The seas grew too big too violent like capitalism and he began to know fear-- the shark, the barracuda, the electric eel he used to drive away like children no longer move at his approach and even the walrus, whose whiskers he's adopted and the wrinkled skin around the arm pits-- doesn't move for him-- everything has changed, and The Sub-Mariner does not know if for the better. Read the poetry of Wayne F. Burke Read a profile of Wayne F. Burke A Rumination For The Season, From Poet Mikels SkeleAutumn Falling In abrupt autumn one sees much of expectation wither and dissipate as if never taken seriously, as if intentions of good will and promises of productive labor, — all leaving of self in favor of virtue -- gone like a good but tardy glacier, dim and dry, parsed to the death. What remains is that wispy thread, barely traceable, but more real and reliable than all the will gathered in all the small rooms and resolutions of change, the thread that runs umbilical, winding though good or ill, tying together all the disparate selves pasted together in the course of a life. In this suddenly strange autumn, in this fall, it is the unreality that glows, beacon-like, though, in the end, what you remember is that carnal you, that piece of protoplasmic geometry. And you ask yourself, is that me? And yet, there is memory, inconstant, but persistently convincing. I understand the consciousness of others, the subjectivity of their being, but not my own, not my own. Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele Two New Poems From Poet Ken W. Simpson Twilight Palm fronds undulate gently somnolently nodding tiredly posing as the sun sets lights glimmer inside and dappled patterns glow against flimsy blinds. Jagged blades and the spires of distant pines appear in silhouette inside as the wind rises and palm fronds writhe flailing wildly as if trying to break free. A Degree of Propinquity Memories of old friends flare and flicker then fade as glimpses of familiar faces names and places the house next door an approaching pram a car rolling, slowly down a driveway towards the street where moods of sadness meander beguiled by moments of hypothetical happiness. Read the poetry of Ken W. Simpson Read a profile of Ken W. Simpson Kim Talon: Mood Pieces For The Season
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Reka Jellema Finds Glory Between Lift
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in the park
leaves swirl twirl around to a shrike’s call through the bamboos in the cooling breeze a hint of sun a couple embraces under the weeping willow the colors of fall one ant comes to our picnic, then ant ant ant ant ant |
squirrels play
in the now dry stream --the toddler’s laugh still afternoon the bamboo’s creak so like my own as we leave tree shadows lengthen into autumn ❊ |
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