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Archive 13
July, 2014


Steve Green Ponders: What Is The True Obscenity?

PictureSteve Green






Thought Police

Wardrobe malfunction!
we just got flashed a nip (gasp!) 

Flat screens are steaming!
Dirty little boys
everywhere
wet dreaming!

Did that hairy degenerate
just drop an F Bomb?
Bleep his murky mouth!
Seven second delay
his gosh darn profanity!

Blood and gore
always may pass
It's taboo body zones
that make us aghast
lapping fig leaves
over offensive body parts
Censorship too is art 

Gotta protect
innocent kiddies 
from seductive 
video vice

We need to 
bubble wrap them
all 1950's
black and white antiseptic

Enter the Thought Police
Our moral wall of shame
Swatting down themes
they deem obscene

Cultural guardians
Forever offended
Playing gotcha games
like good vigilantes do

Wouldn't it be lovely                                                                        
if just for once
their moral indignation
could be aimed

at the true obscenity
of injustice?

Read the poetry of Steve Green
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Jacqueline Czel's Poem For Phillip Seymour Hoffman

PictureJacqueline Czel

Method Actor

TOO
many
clean
years
have gone by,
running together
in one long line
of littered lingo,
words on a page,
a well
scripted,
scripted,
something
to say,
to memorize,
needling
and wheedling
words
for many
strangers
curious eyes.
in the
boom lights,
a lit up site,
a stage set,
another
shoebox
diorama
on the shelf
scripted,
scripted
THE END
THE END
for him
and his actor's
alter ego,
a dramatic
catharsis
pushed upon
himself,
one final,
heart stopping
performance,
viewed by
no one else.

(Rest easy Phillip Seymour Hoffman)

Read the poetry of Jacqueline Czel
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A Warm Welcome To Novelist And Poet Mark Gordon

PictureMark Gordon






Night Train

Admit it. Something is chasing you.
You hear it in the laughter of the children,
as if they are embracing trees,
will never let them go.
 
You ask yourself: how long ago
did you speak to trees,
how long ago did you reign
along the seashore, master
of the waves?
 
Let it up. Something is chasing you
like the shadow of a leopard
and you cannot help but admire
the burning green eyes,
the soft pad of the feet
past midnight.
 
Admit it. Sometimes you feel
like a sack of flesh used up,
its days numbered in wrinkles.
 
Your wife says: you seemed
not yourself today, more serious
than usual, preoccupied.
Admit it. You are having an affair
with something far off
that sounds like a train at night,
crossing a scored land, crying
for you to board.

Read the poetry of Mark Gordon
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"Tankart," Created By Poet/Artist Debbie Strange

PictureDebbie Strange

One of five new works

I unfold my origami self
and swim into a lake of fire
washing my hair in ashes
the crane-legged words
of a thousand burning poems

Picture
The poetry and art of Debbie Strange
Read a profile of Debbie Strange


We Welcome Poet Jessica L. Davis to VerseWrights

PictureJessica L. Davis







again

not bodies together
but words
a gateway to closer
exchanged for touch

again

after deveining each leaf
holding each stone
in our mouths
we missed something

 again

grit left after spitting
pine needles in my hair
an extra note
caught in the warbler's chest

and yet again 


What Isn't Mine

my hand
separating pages
into holy moments

my bosom
the waiting cradle
of what he meant to say 

my exhale
the collusion 
in letting go

Read the poetry of Jessica L. Davis
Read a profile of Jessica L. Davis



"Welcome," A New Poem From Ana Caballero

PictureAna Caballero







Welcome

It’s not like I don’t 
ask nice. Not like 
I have more than 

one shelf. Every night 
I make room, but it 
is for one single 

plate. And every 
afternoon it is I 
who sets it down. 

Who offers you 
or you or you 
the chance to give 

thanks. To be the 
one who makes 
another fold his 

hands. In my home, 
it is you who hosts, 
and I am compelled 

to be charmed.  Call it 
grace. Call it world 
talk. Call it an open 

heart, straight teeth 
that will always 
call you back. 

Read the poetry of Ana Caballero
Read a profile of Ana Caballero



"Wildflowers," A New Poem From Stephanie Brennan

PictureStephanie Brennan







Wildflowers

Remember when you proposed
that first time
my wheels started spinning
and I don’t mean the bicycle wheels
we were riding at the time
though I did speed up, didn’t I
put a little distance between us

I remember it was twilight
the sun an orange giant
on the horizon
cicadas ramped up their love songs
just for us

I was afraid you were needy
I didn’t want to take care of you
I wanted us to take care of each other

But you persevered, didn’t you
twice more you asked
the third time you got down
on one knee, so chivalrous,
so old-fashioned
you waited patiently for trust
to grow like those sunflowers
we planted that one year
they bowed their heads, remember
and smiled down at us

This morning I picked these wildflowers
quite a color combination, isn’t it
remember when we tossed the seeds
to the wind, laughing, I so loved your laugh
you brought me handfuls
every morning in summer
the house awash in color
and all that lavender
I thought it smelled like fresh laundry

It’s ironic, isn’t it
I worried you might be needy
and in the end I would have given anything
to take care of you
but your heart wouldn’t allow it
you did everything on your own terms
dying included

you’ve given me years
unimaginable years
enough to last me two lifetimes
yours and mine
enjoy these wildflowers
my darling
I’ll be back tomorrow

Read the poetry of Stephanie Brennan
Read a profile of Stephanie Brennan



A New Work From Poet John Alwyine-Mosely

PictureJohn Alwyine-Mosely







When winter, remember spring

Berries ripe black to pick in autumn light
with hands, cold from dampness, cardinal
stained, as bruised fruit scents the air.
You taste the summer gone, maternal
moments lost in spring as a deer rustles by.
When home, fragrant water simmers,
for harvest fruits washed clean
to weigh on brass and click scales.
Each bowl thorns when to lean
down brought salted tears not smiles.
Trickling through rough fingers fruit
flops into pan and pops thick. Berries
flavour licking good for pectin test
You release methylated memories:
camping holidays, picnics, cold nights.
Time, as evening moon rises, to add
sugar and trap morning smells
for the breakfast bite of spring.
You measure heat and fear the farewells
if the pop of broken glass tinkles goodbye.
Adding butter to cleanse, the pan is lifted 
to pour, into cloth held crystal clear jars,
while jam falls as slow motion waterfall.
You twitch your nose as steam stars
glisten on window panes as her smile.
Wax paper, scentless like the candles lit,
crackles as wrapped around the necks
sealing in flavours for the darkness.
You know your regrets and neglects
but at each spring taste she laughs.

Read the poetry of John Alwyine-Mosely
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Three Very Short Poems From Leslie Philibert

PictureLeslie Philibert







Still Life

dark fruit
hard and autumnal
beyond grey

be empty
to perfection
devoted to silence
in all things at home


The Soul

she looked puzled
and laid her book
between
the tea cups

and asked me
if the soul was
a woman
and I said
it is now.



The North is Winter

The North is Winter.
Ringing cold. Nameless stars.

A coastal trawler
With a ballast of dead souls.
Shaken into the waves.

The night tugs at my sleeve
As a child would so.
Nameless cold. Ringing stars.

Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
Read a profile of Leslie Philibert


Two Poems From The Pen Of Charles Bane, Jr.

PictureCharles Bane, Jr.







You a Certain Chord

You a certain chord or
movement of a dance as
you crash in a tide and spill
like music or drugs into blood
and we down onto sheets,
your hair in kapok roots and
I think: what bird is this, with
wings outspread, crying under
me?



Isn't It Amusing

Isn’t it amusing that they think
we’re too old for...and don’t see
when our passion stirs?
They don’t notice your hand
reaching over to arrange my letters
in the middle of the game.
Do you know I love those hands
most tenderly when they’re making
tea? And then, again, in the middle
of the night when you touch my arm
and, wordless, ask me to begin a ballet.
You know, I think making love to you
starts in the music of steps in snow
or your look into your purse for a lozenge
when my mouth is dry. Yes, that’s the flag,
that’s the pointing daystar.


Read the poetry of Charles Bane, Jr.
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Two New Poems From Mark MacDonald

PictureMark MacDonald






Plot #245
           ~for Trayvon Martin

I want to de-mean things, take away context
and historical background—let each man 
and woman lie nameless and orphaned

from themselves and their phone numbers. 
Who is this child found shot on the lawn?
To what estranged mothers and fathers does

he truly belong? There is a monument shaped
liked an obelisk in the middle of the Capitol; 
The General on Horseback in the midst of the rain. 

But where is the tomb for the causeless 
and the ghosts along the train tracks—the map-less
lieutenants and their floundering platoons? 



The Last Pioneer
             ~for Johnny

Perhaps it was the sun and its train
of yellow smoke that carried him away
to the waters just over the mountain. 

Sometimes in the evening he would stare
in that direction, standing out on the porch
with a cigarette and a beer, looking

at nothing in particular and speaking
in general terms about the changes
in the neighborhood: The children moved

away from their parents to Dallas, LA
and Seattle—the closing of the plant 
and the illness of a friend. Perhaps it was

the geese he watched glide over the house
that sealed his final decision to leave her behind,
pack up the truck and head the hell out

to Wyoming—live quietly in a cabin, hunt his
own meat, tend a few horses and drink whiskey
with the cowboys in a tavern just down the way.


Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald
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Two Windows, Two Poems, from Poet Sherry Chandler

PictureSherry Chandler







Out of the North Window


A downy woodpecker spirals up the dogwood
like stripes spiraling up a barber pole.
 
A walnut, fallen into the hollow where
the trunk splits, has turned from green to black.
 
The bird taps here, taps there, exploring.
This is not the jackhammer of serious purpose.
 
The bird is looking but he has not found.
A sprout arches into the buttress of a branch,
 
the feral cat’s viaduct to the roof.
The woodpecker pays her no mind. A catbird clings
 
to the window frame, wing-beating its reflection.
Unable to hold onto the tenuous perch, it retreats
 
to a nearby twig. Cat, catbird, and the day
are gray. The tree sports a few red berries,
 
and the woodpecker is Harlequin with red cockade.
He flits away to the ash in pattering rain.


Out of the South Window

Although the bicycle’s programed hills scroll past
with calculated speed, I see through mirrored
knees a plane cleaved by the vertical thrust
of two venerable black locusts, bark
shaggy with Virginia creeper. Swags
 
droop from limbs overarching the line
of the driveway. All my domain is thus divided
into parts. No branches sway, no bird
flutters, nothing relieves this geometry,
but the slow fall of a leaf. I crane my neck.
 
The twilight at eye level is broken by glints
of sun on the locust crowns. A zephyr catches
a white pine needle caught by spider silk,
swings it in a slow arc across the window,
lets it go to float back out of sight.


Read the poetry of Sherry Chandler
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Tracey Gunne Brings Her Poetry To VerseWrights

PictureTracey Gunne






Moon Ripened

There were too many drafts
in that cottage by the lake 
doors kept slamming in your head

You swam naked in the evenings
past the shallow waters 
closer to the deep end where 
the moon's light 
glazed over creases in your skin

I stayed on shore
still warm with the sun's 
impending kisses

Once a week the mail came
we walked barefoot 
on the gravel path
to greet him
then when darkness fell 
your invitation he held 
in open palm
warm and sticky

I was too old to lean 
against his knee 
on the front porch
And I knew 
he was too old 
to notice more 
than he should have
the soft release
of the oppressive breeze
when my shirt surrendered

His spirited voice
whispering in my ear
sounded like waves crashing
as my body receded 

That entire summer 
you chased bats in the rafters
with your bare hands
the moon ripened flesh
openly exposed

Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne
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Daniel Klawitter's Latest Work, With His Reading

PictureDaniel Klawitter







Overflow & Commitment ☊
There is an old proverb, legislator, which we poets
never tire of telling and which all laymen confirm,
to the effect that when a poet takes his seat at
the tripod of the Muse, he cannot control his thoughts. 
He’s like a fountain where the water is allowed
to gush forth unchecked.  –Plato, Laws IV. 
 

The truth is the muse is often fickle.
She likes to be wooed.
Sometimes she wants to be tickled,
On other days, she is rude just to
Start a quarrel that ends in a kiss.
 
You scribble a line, but she
Wants to hear it oral, recited with
A twist of the tongue.  Or she may
Want it sung with full lungs, before
She will bestow a laurel for your crown.
 
If you try to force it, you will only
Make her frown and bring yourself
A world of woe.  Courting her
Requires daily discipline, attention
To form, detail, and apprehensions.
 
Then, the slow hard work accumulates
Into the occasional grace of inspiration:
The poem that seems to spring from
Nowhere, fully-formed and articulate,
An omnipotent storm of exaltation. 
 
And then it flows like a fountain-
And you are drenched in words
You composed but don’t know how
You did it.  But the muse knows
Where water goes—it’s all about
 
Commitment. 


Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter
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A New Poem From Poet Sharon Brogan

PictureSharon Brogan






My dead lover's lover

My dead lover’s lover 
will visit me today. She 
was one of a crowd, 
invisible to me, ghosts 
flitting through our rooms, 
a glimpse, a hairpin 
in the bed sheets, 
an alien scent in the hollow 
of his shoulder. 

Our pasts unspool 
behind us, already 
obsolete, films 
poorly edited, suffering 
from murky narratives, 
weak direction, too many 
bad actors, too much left 
on the cutting room floor. 

What does forgiveness 
cost?

Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan
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A "Slow Waltz" With Kelli Russell Agodon

PictureKelli Russell Agodon







Slow Waltz Where Your New Life Meets Your Old Habits

We lived or loved, or didn’t 

      mow the lawn. We waited 
      for dusk, for satellites, for the opening 
 
of a book or a door. We felt the only
      words were escape or escapade,
      yet we couldn't decide which
 
to choose. We drank hot brandy
      on cold ridiculous nights
      and said how when pleasure
 
refused us we would find it
      and knock it down. 
      We said better than never, better 
 
let the checks roll in, better not be 
      an impossible mailbox sealed shut.
      Maybe the thank you cards
 
we never wrote for our wedding gifts
      that didn't matter. Maybe 
      they’d just be paper crockpots
 
stored in someone else’s home.
      We lived and loved, and did it
      in clover-filled grass. Maybe
 
the miracle didn't resist us, maybe
      we just never found it, 
      as we slept under a moon 
 
 that kept trying to pin us down.

Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon
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Two Poems By Janet Aalfs From Her New Collection

PictureJanet Aalfs

What the Dead Want Me to Know
and light finds us
with the other loves
dawn sunders
 to define.
             ~Eavean Boland
                                                                              
6. A Bird's Tale

Many who die become birds.
I'd like to be one. An original
tai chi sequence,
Grasp the Bird's Tail,
urges me to examine
its homonym, each feathered word.
Later in the form, more alive,
Slant Flying, I'm there.
Bones of lace admit the sky.
This is what I know so far
about dying.



12. Coyote

Not there, but in my mind
a fur-cloaked body
hungry as an echo
loped across Egypt Lake.
I pondered the image
and a presence grew.
Wind through mountain
laurel shivered green
and licked the snow.
Hiking to a further shore,
I paused again
in the sound of steps
through crystal ice that hissed
like shattered glass.
From the future, or the past,
you stopped and turned to show me
who had called to whom –
and your yellow eyes burned through
the silent trees to mine, slate-blue.


Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs
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Poet Sarah Russell Gives Us Her Latest Poem, "Prism"

PictureSarah Russell







Prism

Honey-thighed surf children 
chase the ebb,
bare feet etching
pockmarked sand.  Another
surge, crashing, scrambling,
feardelighted squeals,
tumbling water bubbles/babies
catching sun beams.
 
Scientists see tides and wind 
tug at eternity,
the vast liquidity of earth.
Poets find analogy:
cosmic force pursuing, crushing
fragile human frames
and timid hearts,
while sun-kissed fledglings' merriment
is incidental, drily pondered –
 
this ecstasy of splashing play.

Read the poetry of Sarah Russell
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The Latest Poem From Poet Kim Talon

PictureKim Talon







The Hush

Silence envelops

Even the clock
who shows off every hour
has wound down
so the familiar
tiiiick tock
is absent

where is the sound of Spring?

Birdsong absent
as if the chirrups of sparrows
were caught by wind
and taken clean away

silence envelops

No sigh of wind
or dream-woof of dog
stretched out
in a skim-milk patch of sun
on a cosy carpet

The cats turn their noses up
on windowsill haunts
and curl upon soft chairs

Read the poetry of Kim Talon
Read a profile of Kim Talon


"Laughing Gull," A New Poem From Ray Sharp

PictureRay Sharp







Laughing Gull

Such pickings!
The four-legged-furry-bird-with-long-soft-beak
tore a hole in the shiny-skin-sack
and out spilled foods of many kinds.
We flock to our breakfast.
Be careful.
Watch for the flightless tall-birds
with their grotesque featherless wings
tipped with more-than-two fat worms
that wriggle and grasp
and make the stones to fly like falcons
at our beautiful black heads.


Read the poetry of Ray Sharp
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Picture

Poet William Fraker Makes A Visit To The Hospital

Picture
William Fraker
Hospital Room Visit

Mostly silence followed learning about
too many lesions to count.
My reclusive cousin, of the same age, has thin hair,
             except for his beard.
Several tubes import and export slowly.
 
A patrician nose (I never noticed before) holds no glasses -
they rest on a food tray. 
From time to time, he opens his eyes –
            “I am still here,” and “You are still here,”
or maybe I misread altogether.
 
He blinks twice to tell his nurse about his pain,
eyelids as signal lamps.
He accepts a spoonful of blended
peaches with crushed medication. 
On his bedside, photographs of grandparents
and parents beckon.
The present spreads out, during the visit,
 like soft sheets and a hospital blanket.  
 
On the way home, I remember a week ago,
when my cousin had his voice.
I spoke of how, as children, we rode sleds down a snowy hill;
      he called me his friend.


Read the poetry of William Fraker
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New Poem and Photo Art From Diana Matisz 

Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz
PictureDiana Matisz






I Thought of You Today...

I thought of you today
I felt that amaranthine rush
and after all this time
the flow began
the slow bleed-out
of good intentions
I missed your eager thrusts
into my mind,
the physicality
of your self-imposed distance,
I missed the arch of your silence
against my pulse

I wanted you
to be watching
from another room,
your eyes in rapt regard
I wanted you to see me bleed,
just once

Read the poetry of Diana Matisz
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"Hurt,"The Latest Poem From Heather Feaga

PictureHeather Feaga






Hurt

Near-miss bullets
Striking light 
Metal spread
Closed-eye confetti 
Legs reach right
Bent akimbo 
To double Ss
Calipered apart 
She broke
Splintered home
Filling
From the inside out
His gruesome
Turn of calf
Fair skin facade
A wood lathe 
Stretched across his back
Hydraulic strides
Closing the gait
To the give way
This love
Masked
Kidnapped
I used to look
At his shoulders 
As he stretched 
Now the curl and sleep
That bit of hurt 
Pushing breath 
In the moment
Held by bones 
Shattered 

Read the poetry of Heather Feaga
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Three Brief Poems From Poet L.L.Barkat

PictureL.L.Barkat
Mushrooms

Just you and I,
let’s truffle
let’s shiitake
let’s button (and unbutton). 


Laundry love

is tangled shirts
the hem of a skirt
caught
in the brass button
of your jeans.


Mulberries

1
 
While the mourning dove
is still sleeping,
before the sun can waken her,
I kneel beneath the mulberry tree.
You will know this without me speaking
when you open my stained palm.
 
2
 
Will you.
 
3
 
Long now,
I have missed the mulberries.

Read the poetry of L.L.Barkat
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"Whys Can Sigh," New From Dunstan Carter

PictureDunstan Carter







Whys Can Sigh

I looked deep in her eyes
And saw nothing but you,
I pieced together
The words she unraveled,
Bored and obtuse,
I turned them into song
And sung soft till the walls
Took your shadows,
Brought your scent here
To remind me I’m drifting,
A cornucopia
Of imagined birdsong
Greeting you
In these windows reflecting,
Distant whispers,
The hours we spent here
Talking wet rhymes and laughter,
The guessing games
And the patter,
Does it matter
I was wrong?
Whys can sigh
And then rise
Now you’re gone.

Read the poetry of Dunstan Carter
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A New Poem From Poet Ellen Conserva

PictureEllen Conserva






To Foster

Was given a
Plot of land.
A space,
Not taking up  
A big place
In this world.
 
Was given a
Task to turn
And hoe
And break up
Clods and churn
The earth,
The dirt with care
So someone else
Could kindly
Come and plant
There.
 
When my task was
Done,
The rain and the
Sun
And the seed bearer
Do their work
To sow
And tend
And weed
And cry
“Look how you
Grow!”
 
 
Was given a
Life,
A hole
To fill.
 
And
I love you,
So.

Note: Ellen Conserva fosters orphaned children in Thailand from shortly after birth until they are given to adopting parents.

Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva
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We Welcome Poet Witty Fay To The Pages Of VerseWrights

PictureWitty Fay







Accrual of habit


Love never changes midweek.
It takes a long weekend 
To ruin the random understanding 
Of its death,
The agony of longing and all those
Broken embraces hanging midair.
I wish I could settle on a kiss
As my first move,
But then, there are cinders
In my mouth and a great heaviness
Coiling at my feet,
And the taste of burned dreams
Seems sad as well as bitter.
Still, today is a young Wednesday,
So let us agree on 
A trace of gentle tenderness
And speak less through the week.


Read the poetry of Witty Fay
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We Welcome Poet Jerry Danielsen To VerseWrights

PictureJerry Danielsen







iWant

iNeed to know what's up -
what's going on?

iHave to feed my addiction

iPhone injected
into my central
nervous system

iPad the truth

iFeel the vibrating
pulsating alert

iTouch the anxious frenzy

iStrap on
turn on
put it in me

iBoot up
background noise
masquerading as
more

iNformation



The Little Chair

Held up a man
who spoke to himself
as he typed
into a laptop

And the little wooden chair
didn't know about
circuitry
or words
or Starbucks

And she wondered
why these things
are more important
than her mother tree

Just so a man
can sit on her
while talking to himself
bewildered

Read the poetry of Jerry Danielsen
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Two New Poems From Poet Sejla Srna

PictureSejla Srna







filtered photographs

filling rooms with instruments 
and untouched records,
on-purpose-coffee-stains
and the smell of cigarettes
so when someone walks in
the thought
'oh, an artist!'
may come to mind
but we all know
you spent an hour puffing smoke
into your clothes and bedsheets
developing a strong cough
because you don’t really enjoy
spending your last 5 bucks 
on a pack of Lucky Strikes
aspiring to look creative
never aspiring to create


Terminal

I’ve let my hair grow long, 
so when you meet me at the terminal
you can brush it behind my ear,
as I seduce you with
my see-through blouse
flowing over scraped knees,
lined with fallen, frizzy hairs
that used to tickle you awake.

Read the poetry of Sejla Srna
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Liam Porter: Two Poems About Sleep—Or The Lack Of...

PictureLiam Porter







Idle Engine

The engine still idles;
whirrs away in the background,
as the search for the key
to shut it down for the night
gets more and more flustered.
Under fluffed and flapped pillows,
miscounted sheep,
half-formed sentences,
shuttered-down, silent headlamps.
Each new discovery brings hope,
but turned and turned again,
the wheels still buzz and spin.
There is nothing now to do,
but wait until the fuel runs dry.
Lie in the darkness and try,
not to feed it
Anymore.

Night Sentry

Sleep eludes me now,
for there are places
beyond the dark
I have glimpsed
in terror.
So, even with closed eyes
I am now a sentry;
a wound-up spring
ready to jump
at every sound.
A knight in pyjamas,
an adrenaline-fuelled
man on edge.
I am the first responder,
and sleep eludes me now.

Read the poetry of Liam Porter
Read a profile of Liam Porter


Five Haiku From Poet Wayne F. Burke

PictureWayne F. Burke







Five Haiku

the suckerfish
pushes up daisies
in the garden
             ❧ 
dry leaves slither along the pavement
on their bellies--
my father in the war
             ❧
busy afternoon:
clouds moving
shadows lengthening 
             ❧
walking into the nursing home to work
last rays of sunshine
on my face
             ❧
leaves run like little fools
across 
the busy highway 
 

Read the poetry of Wayne F. Burke
Read a profile of Wayne F. Burke



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