The roses begin to fade and I consider
closing the windows at night but choose
blankets instead. I dream that an old friend
has taken to drink again, and the pain of it
blooms in the dark cavern of my chest, a deep-
red lily, a beautiful wound. Berries ripen
on the bushes. Uncountable birds. One bright
morning I find a kestrel in the dogwood,
eyeing the well-fed sparrows. Flowerbeds
hum with gold wasps, black wasps, grass-
hoppers, a black-and-white cat crouched
beneath the clematis. Old friend, how is it
that people are at ease with one another?
When I return from my walk by the river,
a hundred finches fly up from the gate.
Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan
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Ode to an Avocado
dressed with lemon,
garlic, olive oil & mustard-
a chef's delight
but i like you best
sliced open under rough snake
velvet ripe & creamy
drizzled with sugar
& cold milk,
of indolent summer days
slivers of ambrosia
your taste is only rivaled
by my other childhood memory-
making candied purple yams
flaming giant pan until
rough fibers turn sin-
as nectar oil
hand-bottled for sale in market -
your green womb
wraps me tight like seed
pining for tropical sun
Read the poetry of Mary Grace Guevara
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On a Moon Fragrant Night
On a moon fragrant night the ear a cauliflower
hearkens to the cries of the impoverished street
singer, hearkens to the swish of his modish rags
‘neath the torn curtain of sky. Parched thieves
crouch near the simmering pond, sneak into
the poet’s garden, steal lilacs—white, purple,
lavender—whose gnarled branches curl & twist
block the crooks’ egress, banish them to anguish
& the dissonance
of unresolved chords. May you never know pain
of the chop block, never suffer branding
of your skin, never be felled by the moon’s
scimitar, deafened by the cymbals’ crash or waste
your dandelion years
riding camelback through the Hindu Kush. Such trials
are not for you, mon petit chou-fleur. Come sit beside
me, listen to the song on the far side of the tattered
moon. Then we’ll gather the wind-scattered seeds
that lie beyond
the bleak horizon, allow the stream of regrets to flow
past us. Dreams will perch on our window sills, mirages
drift past the scrim of sleep, swift as the golden fish
who plunge into the bellowing waters. Listen! for the ear,
the cauliflower ear will carry you deep into its spherical music.
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Read the poetry of Judith Dorian
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Four Stanzas on
Deep shadows of history fall
On pavements trodden well in
A white city on bluffs that look
Over such quiet hills. Of
Signs and patience. The cries
Of voices that refuse to be
Silenced by feet tapping down
Corridors we cannot find. Still,
They come and march and
Say what was once said as truth,
As wisdom beyond censure, beyond
Hands that grope, in the dark.
So come. So raise fists to dark
Skies that hold rain that cannot
Fall on songs that are spoken
Read the poetry of Matthew Henningsen
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~for Hudson Rush
I wish I could have kept the exhalation
as the soul left his body, the whoosh,
that moment of moving on into
the mystery of whatever is next.
I can’t grab this, there is no place
to put my finger. He runs away
and I want to follow after.
I walk into the synagogue
and a man follows my body along
the sidewalk. I pretend
he is watching my grief.
I remember when I learned
what a villanelle was.
I think I promised I would write one
on another someday.
Read the poetry of Janette Schafer
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This becomes my favorite part of every day-
the place where I collect thoughts
and write them, to you.
Even when there is nothing much
Small winged flying things and
the halo of ice crystals
surrounding the moon
with promotions and demotions,
life, death, and rebirth.
My dream is that one day
my description of how the sun
rose golden pink today,
lets you know, simply, that you
were part of its rising.
That you may find my “I love you”
as a message hidden between
lines of mundane things,
scattered like so many
dandelion seeds in the wishes
my heart makes to my mind
each time I find a few quick words
for decorating your day.
Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone
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Chatting with Fellini
Rocked up early for a meeting with a friend
at a wood oven pizza place, warm in
Winter, on the road to Adelaide.
This little man with over his collar grey hair
sits in a corner, by a flashy gilded mirror,
wearing a fedora hat and black rimmed glasses.
There’s Marilyn and Elvis and Charlie. Audrey
and Harrison and Clark and Vivian (Leigh),
tomorrow is another day, 8½ weeks from Spring.
The place near empty. Well-used tables, chairs.
Wooden. If they could speak, what stories to tell,
but for another time, or maybe after midnight.
He flashes a serious smile. We talk.
Italian. I once emailed to Barcelona University
in Google Spanish, re-translated it was rubbish,
so keep my side to ’si’ and ’si’ as he emotes.
His name is Federico, seems he’d
made a film or four. He knew his stuff.
Those earlier spoken of, certainly knew him,
though I doubt they’d ever found their marks
on his film sets, and certainly not Elvis, pretty sure.
The King and Marilyn were busy anyway, as
they flirted near my table. Harrison the voyeur, had
his whip out and was raiding a lost ark.
My friend arrived. M, E, C, A, H, C (Gable) and V,
stepped back onto the walls. Gone with the wind.
I turned to Federico, but only an empty chair.
He’d left the room before I could convey how
I had enjoyed his films Satyricon and 8½,
all those years ago, when life was simpler.
great cappuccinos, pizzas.
Read the poetry of Martin Christmas
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