God in the Silence I worship the holiness in the simplest of things. Like the whisper of broken old hurricanes’ frail bodies through the trees, or the scent of rain burying dust in the ground. Like the relentless turbine heart of the hummingbird, the hard pulse of feet against the busy dirt, and the first cries of a newborn child, all asking ceaselessly—Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? I see god in the bullet that knows only its potential energy, in the knife that has yet to taste blood, in the pills that go unswallowed. I hear god in the silence that answers them. In the silence that follows all things. Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse For Neil Fulwood, It's Setting And Contrast
Tracey Gunne Probes A Protection
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Single Mother She offered us the sweetest intentions inanimate smiles painted on with dark blue frosting filling our days with empty homecomings and a fear of being left behind We learned the same needs for the binding touch of a chaotic love where celibate nights cradled us from the free fall of unforeseen winds She wanted us to consider the happiness found in a sequestered heart but all we longed for was to be cherished like the photograph hidden instead of prayers she listed all of our goodbyes Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne Read a profile of Tracey Gunne |
The Balloon You should have been asleep an hour ago but you were hungry and then thirsty and you kept playing with the balloon you got at the party putting my sunglasses on it and my hat and dad’s headphones which did make me laugh and now you insist you’ll only sleep if balloon goes to sleep too so you make a bed for it on the floor out of towels which keep falling off and at first I play along tucking balloon in and kissing his blue head but the seventh time you tell me the covers on top of balloon aren’t working I yell it’s just a stupid balloon and I know right away the night has won so when an hour later your tears now dry balloon cuddled between us in your bed you ask me to tell you both another story I kiss balloon again and whisper this one’s for you. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Read a profile of Samantha Reynolds |
Bloom Pirate I be the rose thief and bloom pirate. Heed the prize in me bleeding fist. I be the wild rose cherisher; Capturing blood-buds, thorns and All with just me bare hands. No blade against the sharp green claws. Cool molten folds comfort me flesh. Petals heal the torn cups of me palms. I brew wine from rose hips and sing of Red raids. Cuts gush smiling from me Fingers. I laugh and suck me blood For sustenance. I be the rose ravager, Feeding the thorns and swinging from trellises. Dirt on the doormat. A bushel of roses Torn out by the roots. Me blood on the Basket-wood, on rusted wire handles. I leave it at your door now and knock. O, terror so becomes a rose. Read the poetry of Phil Boiarski Read a profile of Phil Boiarski |
Goodbye to All That Sudden on silent nights I Think of the long farewell… The wave – The sweet smile hidden Beneath a fading sun… All this Is lost somewhere, this Day of shadows and rain and Whispers said to calm storms That call out on Foreign, frozen sands. Like A petal I picked up once and Stored once in my pocket for The longest time. I Couldn’t let it go. Then, Once on days by cascading Trees once that hung With gray, smiling moss I Found it once again and saw that It had turned once into an Old coin I lost once, long ago, falling Down a well I threw it in For the best of luck. This The farewell, the long goodbye that I had but can’t remember on starry Nights by quiet streams that told Of storms and tables and shouts too Far to be heard, but seen… Always to be seen. Read the poetry of Matthew Henningsen Read a profile of Matthew Henningsen |
Hiraeth Source of soul and senses, place of mind and heart, so the land dispenses, no matter if apart. Smell of acrid eucalypt, smoke of burning bush, liquid crystal carolling, magpies on the roof. Cerulean the shining sky, light bursts in a drench, sunshine screams intensely; so the day is spread. Creep of morning calmness, drift of evening sighs, so the earth stays breathing; ancient, worn and wise. Read the poetry of Roslyn Ross Read a profile of Roslyn Ross |
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