Oracles
Ever since I was a kid it was the outcast I was attracted to, someone who didn’t quite fit in the girl who leaned to one side as she walked, pensive as a falling leaf, the guy who came from the country claiming to know all the symphonies the wind played. Schooling & age have not changed me have only confirmed in me a love of the eccentric a woman as shy as a hummingbird a man who lies on his back contemplating the clouds telling me how much he loved his mother back then in that small town. They in turn overlook the way I tilt my head, listening to them as if they are oracles gazing into the never-ending depths of their eyes. Read the poetry of Mark Gordon Read a profile of Mark Gordon sudden storm
my resolve in puddles Yellow Tomatoes
I once thought I could know anything The death knowledge of the Buddha The clarifying call of Gabriel Former lives and abetting suns That enthrall worlds more able than mine I too never doubted my time supply To be the daughter of the dying father Who buries without the blow of love regret But my father is dying an excessive death With a wounded body that aligns Rare moments of life To the faint efforts of his mind And I do I offer my happy baby’s dance Ask about our mayor and the bad president So together We can wave our related heads with a laugh I bring home the foods he likes to eat Chocolate sugar-free A bag of sweet yellow tomatoes That falls when his good hand forgets to grab And when he insists on phoning my mother Makes a promise that he won’t speak drink I dial I do I dance Far from the Buddha knowledge of the giving death Deaf to the recurring chant of Gabriel Books by my bed and worlds of grace That I grasp But lack the good hand with which to grab Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero Man-made Lake
Crossing the Texan plain in September, in the back of a Ford with my sister and folks, windows wide open to catch the hot breezes that whistle like freight trains from the horizon, I hear our mother whisper to father, “Soon, all this will be underwater.” My sister and I are astonished to silence: the sun-bleached sky gives no sign of moisture. Will Noah’s flood now reach into Texas, the day of retribution at last (thank you Jesus), and our parents again keeping it from us? A dragonfly shimmers, or is it a minnow? That buzzard, who floats without any tether, might be a seagull, searching for trash. Those cattle—they’ll drown, their brown eyes like bubbles, panicked and rolling around and around. These scrawny trees will be waving like seaweed and the tumbleweeds turn into prickly blowfish. Now, everything opens to change: deserts can be oceans and rivers run dry, valleys slice through the unsteady earth. We whisper together in the back seat, urging the old Ford to flee toward home: Lord, none but you can save us. Your yellow eye watches. We sweat as we pray, please, please, don’t send the rains. Read the poetry of Anara Guard Read a profile of Anara Guard Donal Mahoney: Ever Observant, Even After
Baptism
Each generation inherits the sins of their fathers Never a clean start, never a new beginning The cries of every killer still echo in our ears And the blood of the victims is still caked on our hands It all carries forward, never falls away But we try Baptism by fire, by immersion, by sacrifice Baptism by kisses, by caresses, by loving glances Cleansing, nay, scouring the soul Removing the stains of a thousand lifetimes It would take the rest of time to account for all our sins But we try Time is a harsh mistress for a tender heart For a lonely heart in a time of decadence So dance away your pain and your regrets Dance until your feet blister and bleed Twist and turn like a dervish of desire and lust Shake off the dust of the past and leap Into the arms of your lover The road to salvation is paved with Mingled tears and tangled tongues Read the poetry of Brian Mosher Read a profile of Brian Mosher Hestia
When we were married, I wanted to learn to make clothing. I needed that connection to my body, a sweater of my making. I never learned to knit. I always wanted to, wanted two hands working to make things that are soft and wrap neatly around my neck, my shoulders. I wanted the magic to turn simple yarn into wearable art, into an expression of domestic affection, but where was home? I sit on a wooden chair, on a simple white cushion and I polish stones. My hands are always busy, always moving, but they make no knitted art. I can even crochet, with loops and hooks and turn a skein into any number of square things, or a hat that’s far too big to fit on a human head. (I wear it anyway.) I felt that if I could knit I could pick up the disparate threads and blend them into the square of my hearth. I would learn how to cast on and cast nets around everyone who had no hope for more. I could find stragglers and ken them into my life, my home, I could embrace you and sing gladly. But I never learned how to knit. Maybe it’s because you told me that needles are too sharp anyhow. Maybe I could prick my finger. Maybe not Hestia but a modern Sleeping Beauty, I would impale myself on a knitting needle and sleep until you woke me, when you wanted me to wake. Instead of knitting I learned to weave, to leave and wake myself. No offering bowls, no blessed hearth. I wove a coat and wore it out in autumn. Read the poetry of Jen Strin Read a profile of Jen Stein J Matthew Waters Finds Solace
|
the violin and the piano ☊ their sound supersedes the clamor and the simmering pot not quite boiling not quite understood the floors mean nothing they’ve since been replaced replaced but not restored never to be the same appearing out of nowhere like a silver moon in disguise the music filters through making my world come to life the violin and the piano still echo in these walls comforting my sorrow and giving me repose |
The Great Cowboy of the Midwest The hook tied to the end of his yellow line Pulling toward green-light leaves the summer’s sun. The Great Cowboy of the Midwest takes out his lasso twirls it through the air that floats down the river of woods twisting his shoulders As his voice hums along To a phantom clip-clop And he falls into routine Back, forth, back, forth His dance blocks the sun from exiting the trees. Rope whipping against the wind and sliding its graze across the branches. He perfects his form swaying back and forth The crowd staring past at the two dogs sniffing around his ankles. The line has been thrown to the trees time and again, the only ritual he practices. Summers were made for practice. He completes his grand finale, This rodeo’s conclusion. Branches bow to tease his line He hopes to catch nothing. Read the poetry of Lisa Folkmire Read a profile of Lisa Folkmire |
How Not to Write A Poem Keep busy. Clean the house. Empty the kitchen cabinets. Scrub them out. Put it all back. Organize the junk drawer. No music. No dancing. No long walks unless talking and texting with friends at the same time. Read a light novel. Or two. Or three. Do not read poems. Watch the news. Get angry. Go shopping. Drive fast. Avoid introspection. Do not meditate. Ignore your dreams. Always do two or three things at once. Watch television while on the internet. Pay no attention to non-human animals. Stay out of the woods. Avoid gardens, lakes, strange neighborhoods, and the sea. At all costs avoid the sea. Develop an active social life. Resist solitude. Party hard. Don’t wake up. Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan Read a profile of Sharon Brogan |
Rungholt Whirls of wicker and calico of turf and salt, of cats and fish. The eyes of those surprised by sudden depths are bitter and open. They drink sea under the glass of a cracked tide, in dark tunnels of waves. The water children flail under a sea moon. The sea drags across the dark silt: hear the bell, hear the bells The Sea at Night a move of broken glass black as polished leather, burnt wood, the big shifter that trembles steel under us, the horizon hides, above a curtain made of holes with stars around as the lost language of wind, howls of salt, tide of night Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert Read a profile of Leslie Philibert |
The Bowed Man stiff dragging legs follow worn shoes step by step by step a cap and a stick in a wrinkled hand the other hand on his back to keep his direction dazzlingly slow to the end of the street step by step by step an alien in the crowds a crow without screech gaze fixed on the pavement life goes on at different speeds to be discovered step by step by step at the next stretch inexorably ahead every street corner calls for a decision to the other side step by step by step turn left, right or time takes the decision out of his hands step by step by step he shuffles uncertainly up to the curb the pedestrian signal ticking fast hurry up bowed man your time is running out Read the poetry of Edjo Frank Read a profile of Edjo Frank |
Sad Joy I have gathered Those colored pieces Of you and laid them into Myself Like pressing flowers In a book. You are there. You always will be. Pressed into me. The sad joy comes When I flip my Pages And a fragile flower, Saved long ago, Slides down Into my lap. Gingerly I cup it in my Hands And marvel at how beautiful It remains. Preserved in Me. You In Me. Still beautiful. Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva Read a profile of Ellen Conserva |
A Child Lost Whose hands could work such a heinous deed that laid to death this innocent child? A boy who bore-- though much he’d seen-- eyes unknowing and open. His smile willing, he welcomed a friend. He needed more than his world could give: Siblings many, provisions few, attentions were torn and jealousy thick. Barely hidden rage hung, a thin veil between his precious, tender beginning his promise and yearning, and his wrongful, woeful end. Who can regard his killer with love? Who can regard this monster without disdain? There is none. There is no cause, no mercy, no reason to find in hatred. Read the poetry of Claudine C. Wargel Read a profile of Claudine C. Wargel |
Insomnia Observation It wasn’t until I looked through the moon that I realized oily, black leeches were feasting on my wild heart. “Too many daydreams,” explained my father. “Not enough light,” explained my mother. I drank saltwater to dry them out; I floated in the ocean to draw them out. They would not leave. My heart was draining. I became white watercolor with a hint of pink on my cheekbones, arctic blue on my lips. I only have so many heartbeats; they smack against my rib cage like birds hitting a window. Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite Read a profile of Danielle Favorite |
Thank you for visiting Tweetspeak VerseWrights. © 2012-2018. VerseWrights. All rights reserved.: Acrostic Poems
Ballad Poems Catalog Poems Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems Epic Poetry Fairy Tale Poems Fishing Poems Funny Poems Ghazal Poems Haiku Poems John Keats Poems Love Poems Math, Science & Technology Poems Ode Poems Pantoum Poems Question Poems Rondeau Poems Rose Poems Sestina Poems Shakespeare Poems Ship, Sail & Boat Poems Sonnet Poems Tea Poems Villanelle Poems William Blake Poems Work Poems |
To translate this page:
|