Archive 12
June, 2014
From Diana Matisz, "Street Lamp Child" Diana Matisz
Street Lamp Child 12:38 am. Tell me child, how did you get here? How did you find yourself lying in an alley on your back blows raining down on you from the fists of other children. Ragged freeze-frame images of angry little faces baby fat of childhood clinging to sharp angles of impending adulthood your dark eyes staring up in fear haloed by a street lamp. Children dying world imploding and yet, in the safety of a quiet town they fight and scream kick and pummel and for what? Jealousies and slurs or the unforgivable: lack of love? Sirens shatter what's left of night's peace as twenty children scatter in a game of hide-and-seek no longer an innocent race. I watch as you stumble away to a home where no one cares and hope you sleep well, child. I won’t. Read the poetry of Diana Matisz Read a profile of Diana Matisz New Bilingual Poems From Poet Milenko Županović
 Milenko Županović
Poems in English and Croatian Birth A spark of faith mother's body the secret of the universe God smiles in the eyes of a child. Rođenje Iskra vjere tijelo majke tajna kosmosa osmjeh Boga u očima djeteta. ❧ Stone Graves Cult of the Dead unclear symbols carved in stone sank into the ground eternal sleepers forgotten secrets. Kameni grobovi Kult mrtvih nejasni simboli uklesani u kamenu otonuli u zemlju vječni spavači zaboravljene tajne. Read the poetry of Milenko Županović Read a profile of Milenko Županović Two Short Lyrics From Shloka Shankar Shioka Shankar
Lock and Key A gentle breeze sets the curtains aflutter and the door begins to close in on itself the lights in the hallway are turned off and the narrow gap below my door licks the darkness clean howling in the next street, a dog doggedly looks for its scent while I curl deeper under the covers ruminating about the shadows lurking behind my soul, calling out to me stealthily, inviting me to join them as I parade my sporadic strains of madness kept under lock and key. Five Line Poem The river meanders seemingly unaware of its current... never looking back all the while. Read the poetry of Shloka Shankar Read a profile of Shloka Shankar Poet jacob erin-cilberto Sets A Lyric In Motion jacob erin-cilberto
Set in Motion a Coney Island boy riding a youthful Ferris wheel seeing the bottom and the top all at once--- feeling the pinnacle of the world in a night breeze but getting let out where the inner city ground hits so hard, the penniless travelers on a NY tributary that bleeds into back alleys and side streets of gold teeth, and pockets full of back seat sex boosting egos for all of an hour i looked out that five story window at what my life could be but was always too afraid of heights to challenge the world, and i always kept checking to make sure the safety bar was in place so i wouldn't fall out of my dreams in case i ever did make it to the top where fantasies would rock my will trying to scare me into inertia and i would teeter between poverty and riches feeling as close to that hour's honest ride as some hooker who winked at my adolescence when my dad made a wrong turn and we ended up in a part of town i wasn't meant to grow up in. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto Rowan Taw Gives Us A New Lyric: "When" (With Audio) Rowan Taw
When ☊ When love is at an end, I turn to the dead again; they can’t falter from my projection, nor suffer me rejection. When love is at an end, I turn to the dead again. When love is at its start, I walk from them apart, caught in such fanciful delight that is attachment’s plight. When love is at its start, I walk from them apart. When love is at an end, I turn to the dead again. We Welcome Poet Jillian Parker to VerseWrights Jillian Parker
White Night Because the night has swallowed the moon, in the glare of its milk-white teeth, the moon-daughter waits in shadow, in the tangled mane of a weeping birch. Is it her song that stirs the leaves, or is it the fingers of the wind, lunar servants, silken reminders of silver rays? She steps out with blind eyes, shivering, testing her footing on each mossy root and rock ledge, until she finds the place in her memory, further on and up, into a clearing fringed with lingon-berry leaves, where the last few star-flowers cling to the edge of a sandstone cliff, where she holds a twilight vigil, waiting for the midnight sun to fade into moonlight. Read the poetry of Jillian Parker Read a profile of Jillian Parker New: "The Surrendering," From Poet William Fraker William Fraker
The Surrendering April forsythia surrenders yellow to backyard breezes. The expected and unexpected gnaws, as I return to work and adult children depart. Mother was ninety-one. Nothing goes as planned, despite preparations. The burial plot needs readjustment to receive remains. Insurance policies require legal advice. My brother orders twenty death certificates. Pictures, never noticed before, get culled and shared. Stillness marks each next unseen step. Cookies and cheese cover church tables. I hear condolences, and yet do not. My ears brim with silence - early morning breaths stretching and fading into the dark. Read the poetry of William Fraker Read a profile of William Fraker "Dark Photograph," From Poet Eleanor Swanson Eleanor Swanson
Dark Photograph She finds the photograph, 5 x 7, black and white and gray, depicting three figures in complete silhouette. Not a detail of their faces, their features or their clothing can be made out, though the one in the middle a bit shorter than the other can be seen to have long wavy hair, and the one on the left, hands on hips, elbows forming triangles the crepuscular light shows through, wears a cap, bill turned sideways. Little can be known of the one on the right, round alien-shaped head melded with the top of what might be a spruce tree. Above a faint horizon line, a gray background can be seen, suggesting mountains or smoke from a fire billowing out of control. Who are these people and what happened when the fire, if it was a fire, drew closer? Even studying the photograph deeply, under magnification, reveals no more than this. Three people, outdoors, whose lives are in danger Read the poetry of Eleanor Swanson Read a profile of Eleanor Swanson All New Haiku and Tanka From Chen-ou Liu Chen-ou Liu
Haiku and Tanka autumn twilight a crow's cry filling the spaces between his words ❧ I scribble down today's first line memories rising like bubbles from the mud of my mind ❧ summer moonlight on One Thousand and One Nights mother's smell ❧ my muse drones on and on in a monotone voice snowflakes drifting on this hazy spring day Read the poetry of Chen-ou Liu Read a profile of Chen-ou Liu Michele Shaw And A Sense Of "Liquid" Michele Shaw
Liquid it’s a dream in liquid chaos slippery and delightful and off balance and filling that shiny bubble nesting in a burnt haystack glinting a flash I only half believe and only in silent pitch I am drawn and drawing it’s dawning further away slicking my sinewed lasso graying my grip with doubt lovely pain and maybes double-knot and propel me into should I and almosts causing a part, a vortex, a leak freeing a wispy drop enough to dew my palm enough to shake my soul enough to keep me reaching and kicking and swimming in a dream of liquid chaos Read the poetry of Michele Shaw Read a profile of Michele Shaw |
Two Short Poems From The Pen Of Kathleen Rogers Kathleen Rogers
daddy's girl hail! a new birth another mouth to feed such a reckless breed no time for pictures or carving initials on the twisted family tree my father delighted with a girl until i could ask why? Thoughts on turning 44 i’ve been a boy a girl i’ve been on top of things and people all with a head full of madness a heart filled with gladness is combustible Read the poetry of Kathleen Rogers Read a profile of Kathleen Rogers An Autumnal Poem From Poet Juliet Wilson Juliet Wilson
Time to leave When the artist's magical light seems to last all day .....a warm glow slanting with a chill at its heart when rowan berries shine like jewels .....and the robin sings its sadder song when the gold of August fields fades away to brown .....and green becomes yellow above our heads then swallows and martins chatter and flutter gather in crowds on telephone wires and wait for the northerly wind to blow them south—its time to go, they know Read the poetry of Juliet Wilson Read a profile of Juliet Wilson Poet Rosa Saba Pulls An "all-nighter" Rosa Saba
all-nighter sweet crunch of dry snow below my heels, toes cracking as i breathe in through the soles of my feet and inhale winter at its finest at its latest, midnight now and when the sun breaks i'll be inside and will this chill still be with me? tonight, i told myself i am going to find out two hours of sleep dangle above me, a sharp hook that i refuse to take because tonight is not a night for oblivion i've got words in me sharp ones protruding from my spine and soft ones whispering saying, you'll be fine and i don't know who to believe anymore since i cannot believe myself and so i look to midnight, to one in the morning and every hour after just give me the answer, i ask and i'll go gently into the day it's just days like this when something falls into place and i, oblivious don't notice until some clairvoyant seventh sense reads me like a book, and i am opened wide and the time it takes to close back up again is a lifetime within a nighttime and so days like this turn into nights like these sweet crunch of dry snow click my heels, three times and i'm home and i stayed up all night for the first time in my life because i was thinking of you Read the poetry of Rosa Saba Read a profile of Rosa Saba "Job's Sapling," A New Poem From Marie Anzalone Marie Anzalone
Job's Sapling But I tell you, this tree planting is awful patient work and it all seems provisionary, at best- considerations for terrain and inclination nourishment without and within energy transfer the stubbornness of some roots and fragility of others. there is a community waiting to define all limits. and I, I circle warily, measuring: projected branch spread, depths, tapping straight lines into crooked fields addressing property rights the wants of children, anticipating. Then, revelation. A job, hard under best circumstances; infinitely more frustrating if one does not even know what kind of tree one is invited to plant in the first place. Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone Read a profile of Marie Anzalone A New Poem From Poet Danielle Favorite Danielle Favorite
summer's end lake The sun is almost empty. The last of its honey-light slowly drips into the linear crack in-between lake and sky. The embers in my heart that keep me alive are fading from the cold air I breathe in as I stand on a grass-stubbled sand dune, watching the sun dry out and the lake wrestle with its grey self, spewing angry white froth. The wind is so sharp if you were to shout secrets in my ear I couldn't keep them-- sand fills the air instead. Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite Read a profile of Danielle Favorite Poet Tim Gardiner Fights "The Cold War" Tim Gardiner
The Cold War The flippant practitioner said to me ‘Bipolar disorder is terribly trendy.’ ‘That’s wonderful news old chum, I’m having a whale of a time!’ Depression is the must have disease More mood stabilisers doctor, please. Destroyer of marriages and families Tainting every single day’s activities. Inappropriate behaviour and language Suicidal thoughts; the clock was my gauge. Seconds seem like hours, days like years Unable to shift up the mental gears. Walking ten miles in an evening storm Writing a book in weeks is the norm. Burning out while you feel so high You know this can’t last, the fall is nigh. Lacking the energy to pull myself together Moods change daily with the weather. Head over heels in love at first sight Before the Wall is erected pre-flight. Growing more distant day by day Hiding aching body and soul away. To prevent the Cold War’s rejection Safety is in the loneliest isolation. But manic depression does have virtue Without it, I wouldn’t have written to you. Read the poetry of Tim Gardiner Read a profile of Time Gardiner "Squib," Paul Sands' Latest Poem, with Audio Paul Sands
Squib ☊ Rigid truths and squared guaranteesTexture this boy His morseled fantasies The graceless torrent of impotent gods Wary as the wasp on the chameleon's Trapeze tongue For even as the microscope remains Boxed, in cotton, in woollen peace Rags may still record Fidelity's soiled tapestry Once stung, the swollen speech Of reason's soured and thickened song Bastards the condensed apprenticeship Fields a howling, childish drove where Dreams so quickly cloud to sheep I could so easily...shhhh You shall not impeach me for the rhymes That I decline Angie Werren's Latest Poem, A Pantoum Angie Werren
a roll of film pantoum everything I’ve lost is here the world inside this roll of film your child-face screams through each frame a crushing weight of birdsong in the air the world inside this roll of film these pink walls and old bedroom doors a crushing weight of birdsong in the air I close my eyes hoping it can fly away these pink walls and old bedroom doors this place is not where I want you to be I close my eyes hoping it can fly away I find a downy woodpecker — soft, on the sidewalk this place is not where I want you to be your child-face screams through each frame I find a downy woodpecker — soft, on the sidewalk everything I’ve lost is here Read the poetry of Angie Werren Read a profile of Angie Werren VerseWrights Welcomes Poet Naki Akrobettoe Naki Akrobettoe
A Poem That Healed ☊ --for my aunt Pandora, a.k.a. Precious P 100 percent of me believe that I possess the cure to cancer- call me crazy, that I very well may be. Truth is, I cried for seven days straight when they told me my Aunt Pan had three months to live…My tears reached towards the heavens and my heart ached just to give her more of what we consider time because I deemed her to the most valuable gift that life could bring and if I could wish upon a million stars I would wish just to sing her peace. The melody would start off with a little bit of humming followed by a sweet symphony of brass, bass, and cello. I promise you have never met an angel with a sweeter hello- she was my everything. She was to me, what Michael Jackson was to the world and we made a pact when I was just a young little girl, that I would never stop dreaming in color, or outside the four corners of a box, even if I was living life at the bottom my heart would always put me at the top. My aunt could never hurt a fly and the moment she bowed out gracefully, I never questioned why because I told myself big girls don’t cry- we shower blessings and after the cancer therein lied the lesson that all I ever asked God for was the strength to see her through her last days. Morphine was not enough to erase our past away. I can still smell her baked fish and broccoli casserole. I’m smiling toward the heavens because the angels will never know a dish tastier or a hug never worth trading; this woman taught me about dating, first kisses, and heartbreaks. I would be rude if I did not reciprocate, so with all the God within me, I vowed to write her a poem a day, just to create a fantasy where she could stay, just a little while longer so I could find her a remedy that could erase her pain away gently. If only peace came in an IV or a bottle I would go bankrupt just so she could swallow or break bread, even take communion. Never again would she have to be tube fed, because I was poetry at her bedside; a peace that will never subside. Not even after the last syllable was written, not even after her eyelids closed- simply because I wrote this just so she would know that she made a difference. I will recite this, live this, and breathe this in her remembrance. "Threshold," A New Poem From Cheryl Snell Cheryl Snell
Threshold Leaning on cut-out sky, the warped window twists like an arthritic hip. Better off untouched, we decide, and leave it embedded in decades of dirt. That house had good bones; made it hard to move. We imagined French doors thrown open on guests lined up to the horizon, shimmering in fancy dress at the seam of earth and sky. Such dreaming exhausted us. To steady our nerves, we plucked at the piano’s guts, summoned singsongs already gone sharp or flat. Silence curdled the light slapped against sun-bleached walls. We’d never have chosen that color if we’d known how it would fade, or that we’d have to live with it so long. Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell Read a profile of Cheryl Snell |
Three Short Poems From Poet Bethany Rohde Bethany Rohde
Three Short Poems silent blossoms fall one lands in wet eyelashes at her father’s grave ❧ how many more huddles in the doorway with- out your goodbye? Alone, I press a chipped mug to my cheek, and warm it ❧ open air cracked as he shook out the rug –Whiplashed I’m returned to the floor Read the poetry of Bethany Rohde Read a profile of Bethany Rohde Two Short Lyrics From Poet Mark Windham Mark Windham
A Table for Two I requested a table for two – something quiet, intimate – where we could be alone … with each other. The mood was right the lighting perfect the food excellent the service superb Her eyes swirled like the spoon stirring her coffee, and never met my own. I requested a table for two, but at no point were we ever alone... with each other. Ripples and Reflections It is fitting my time should end in this place and this season, with the waters calm and the colors fading. Spare me the musty embrace of earth’s last grasp, or the ashy kiss of a final fire. Instead, place me in a boat and push me from the shore beneath an afternoon sun, so that I may float among the reflected leaves until nighttime falls. May the ripples of my passing bring more joy than those of my life. Read the poetry of Mark Windham Read a profile of Mark Windham Tim Buck, Our Newest Poet, Shares A Poem And Reading Tim Buck
situation ☊ In this gentle plunging wildness, mountain trees grow into spring. Blossoms are fragrant with hope of death coming later in the year. I could build a nice philosophy out of this Yin-Yang paradox. Instead I'll simply sit becalmed, refusing my brush and paper. Springtime can be a bad time for those who fall prey to it, for those who think of desires as auguries of good fortune. And spring is like a memory before something happened. Ha!... I laugh straight into the riddle. I laugh so hard that four tears trickle down to my crooked lips. This cool morning wine is good. Why wait for evening's permission? Blossoms now dim to unknown colors, a song is coming from their scattering. Or...is that the lazy breeze whispering a poem that could never be written? I think this old mind is calming down. Passion seems so absurd these days. Who could love a hermit, anyway? Tomorrow I might again dip my brush into ink and try to make words dance. If someone 'dances' to their rhythm, I would take it as a quiet form of love. That fog of branch-torn blossoms now falls onto clear brook water. And it complements another riddle: how so much wine has made me sober. Archive 12
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