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Archive 15
September, 2014


Poet Witty Fay "Quantifies" The Hug

PictureWitty Fay







The arithmetics of the hug

When out of numbers,
We could count the heartbeats
And the way they softly translate into hugs.
One at dawn,
Cracking the shells of the day,
Two more at noon,
In the steaming warmth of the senses,
Half a hug,
As you command the core of the day
Into submission,
A couple of hug-free hours,
Sloven in thought,
Bearing resemblance to the tarried clouds,
And the rest of the longing embraces,
Too many to tally,
Too few to save,
Shall fall silently between the starched sheets,
To shelter from all the harms of the dark.

Read the poetry of Witty Fay
Read a profile of Witty Fay


Jerry Danielsen Serves Up "Salt and Chocolate"

PictureJerry Danielsen






Salt and Chocolate

She said she loved me

Not like chocolate
but like BBQ potato chips

She liked the crisp snap
the salt
but the depth wasn't there

She misread the ingredients
and treated me so lightly
like the little empty bag
with some crumbs in the bottom

My bitter sweet dark milk chocolate soul
was missed
the sugar
ignored

Not that I don't like chips

But the big hunger
kept burning

The big hunger
kept me hollow

And she couldn't digest
the words from my mouth
that left her tongue tied

like the bite taken
out of an empty chocolate figure -
with salt
in it's wounds

Read the poetry of Jerry Danielsen
Read a profile of Jerry Danielsen


Tim Buck's "Autumn," With A Reading By Heather Primrose

PictureTim Buck






Autumn  ☊

The melon shades of leaves
will soon rust and fall gently
to layers of rest and forgetting,
like sunken poems, unusual love,
and grave silence after the crows.
 
The black walnut tree trembles down
its mysterious spheres to sleep darkly,
to pulse with memory of heartwood.
 
Old roses are paling with grace
in this air of ruining tomorrows.
Autumn again, and all the years
twisting a garland of melancholy.


Read the poetry of Tim Buck
Read a profile of Tim Buck

VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes
Poet Wally Swist

PictureWally Swist






Cry of the Hawk

The hawk’s shrill cry emitting from the twisted
Branches of the windbreak lining the scrub
 
Meadow pierces me.  I remember when
My Labrador and I were walking back from
 
The brook on a summer day such as this one. 
We looked at each other standing in
 
Our own disbelief, water still dripping from
Her coat the color of cinnamon.  The hawk’s
 
Chick must have just dropped down from one
Of the high branches of the red pine out
 
Of its nest, tumbling onto the piles of needles
Surrounding the trunk.  The mother’s call
 
Answering the chick’s shrieks, as it hobbled
On unsteady legs and claws, often balancing
 
Itself on its wings and tail feathers.  The red-tail
Descended in a barely audible rush of its
 
Half-outstretched wings, landing at the base
Of the tree, alarm evident in the flaring pupils
 
Of its eyes, looking at us standing several yards
From her.  She must have felt our wanting
 
To help her because she seemed to have
Acknowledged that in us before turning toward
 
The brush in which her chick had already
Disappeared into, thick with deadfall, detritus
 
Of beech leaves, and runners of princess pine. 
We walked around her, giving her the berth
 
She deserved for her to carry out the rescue that
Only she was capable of.  As she stood erect,
 
Lifting her beak and calling out to her chick, as
It weakly answered with its frail shrieks that rent
 
The air with the sound that could only be
Unmistakable as that of incomprehensible grief.

Read the poetry of Wally Swist
Read a profile of Wally Swist

 

J Matthew Waters' Introspective Poem, "Boomerang" (with audio)

PictureJ Matthew Waters


Boomerang

He started telling me things
little things
I had no business knowing

After a while the little things
mixed with the big things
and soon the important things
seemed to not matter so much

Every day for over two thousand
I did nothing but live alone with
my own thoughts

Of course I continued to enjoy
chocolate kisses and
group therapy and
kite flying

When he rescued me from
voluntary confinement
I screamed incoherently while
riding on the back of his fifty horses
hair blowing back horizontally
arms raised and flailing

Now after so many years since
time has turned around
and I find myself
drifting and regressing
but succeeding at exorcising
my very own demons


Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters
Read a profile of J Matthew Waters

Michelle Sho Returns With Her Latest Poem, "anzac"

PictureMichelle Sho







anzac

soldier
you are free now

cream of the crop

how to define a destiny?

in the dirt and mud
on frontlines
faraway terrains
the dry mountains and the herders

home is on the west coast
home is with angela

an angel.

all the sleepless nights
you stood in protection

freedom is not free

and the water stayed black as
partial beams of light
danced like crystals over
the breakers
14 silhouetted surf boats raise
     their oars to the dawn

ashes are laid at sea

we drink the salt air, the
melancholia of bagpipes

you never let go of
holding
my fingers
between
your
fingers

soldier

your service is
who we are

Read the poetry of Michelle Sho
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VerseWrights Welcomes Poet Shivapriya Ganapathy

PictureShivapriya Ganapathy







The Coming

You come
you always come
when I shampoo my head
waters streaming down
the drain…
You come
you take me unarmed
when I sit on the garden wall
gazing, gaping at
colluding squirrels on
coconut trees.
You come
trying to catch those
bushy tails
and prance right
under my eyes
Sly fox! Coy lover,
muse, you come,
you always do.
Ah! you know when
I am unarmed.

Hidden behind those lilac
curtains,
the space your living
a mirage,
you come.
If only windows
had tongues!
Your evasive elusive
tiptoes feed my mind,
my eyes, and
I gaze more and more
and more wide
and you still come
you always come
as you do
on rainy nights
those pearl drops clinging
sliding down electric wires
you gurgle at them
cooing, counting,
you come in drops-tasting.
You come.

Read the poetry of Shivapriya Ganapathy
Read a profile of Shivapriya Ganapathy



Johannes Bjerg's Latest Poem, "Spiders"

Picture
Artwork by Johannes Bjerg
PictureJohannes Bjerg







Spiders

usually I get rid of spiders
in my flat

but that one
in the corner
above the lamp
pointing upwards
I let be

it eats those
tiny insects
that come inside
on warm summers
like this one

that'll do

             let's dance I say to the neurons
             and they accept the invitation
             we do a pogo across the floor
             littered with painting in various
             degrees of un-finishment and get
             sweaty well I do I'm not sure neurons
             have that ability but they can keep
             track of a vague (I prefer it that way)
             map of the world and store data
             much better than anything and the pogo
             demands no special ability other than
             to be able to move arms and legs

either I hoover
them up/in

the spiders

or use an insecticide
with floral scent

and hoover them
up when they're
dead

it's practical

heartless
but practical

in those situations
I fear the stricter interpretations
of karma 

The Danish version of this poem here.
Read the poetry of Johannes Bjerg
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We Welcome Poet Robert Nied To VerseWrights

PictureRobert Nied






The Greenhouse

Hard-backed Adirondack chair with flaking red paint
On a gravel floor unforgiving of bare feet.
Yet it is the most comforting space in my world.
 
It is where I sat after the surgery
held together by titanium wire and the kindness of family.
Feeling more tenuous than April ice, I slowly thawed ....myself
Like a cryogenic space traveler, joyful to be home,
The long flight a hellish memory, quietly growing dimmer.
 
Even now it is where I sit
When time feels short and the days feel too long.
Sweet basil and tarragon and
The casual conversations with my son
Who brings me lemonade so sour it makes me shake.
He “likes it that way,” and so do I.
 
It is where my wife shares the idea of a new garden
That seems impossible or odd
But in the diffuse sunlight of that space
It reveals itself to be brilliant.
 
There is an empty blue pot in the corner,
Where it has been for years.
Someday soon I will plant it with a most stunning ....orchid.
In this space there is always a tomorrow.

Read the poetry of Robert Nied
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A New Poem From The Pen Of Sharon Brogan

PictureSharon Brogan






Calling the Ghost

How long must I sit on your grave 
to elicit a visitation? Must I fast? 
Must I meditate on the vastness 
of the universe of death? Must 
I count my own? Must I arrive 
at midnight to pull your ashes 
back to some semblance of you? 

If I wake, if I sleep, will you come 
to me, shambling, silent, silhouetted
against the summer moon? Will you 
speak? I closed your eyes with my own 
hand. I sat at your side and waited. 

Now I sit on your grave, and wait. 
I wrap myself against the night, 
I sit on the cold ground, where you 
are not. And wait.


Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan
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Tracey Gunne's Latest Poem, "Triggers"

PictureTracey Gunne







Triggers

approaching black shadow of a
memory rises with the warning of
impending storm clouds encircling
as the weak search for shelter in 
the rafters decaying...

so simple really
rain on the roof forcing us
to stay inside
a shallow pool of tears form
surround the heart
quiet waters whisper 

to the crescent lobe
of lunar cycles and a child
who once dreamed wings rested
softly on her shoulders

and i realize i never left 
that moonlit porch
or the lake that tried to drown me


Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne
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We Welcome Our Newest Poet, Lynne Rachell

PictureLynne Rachell






Last 15

There are some things
For which you have no desire 
to write home to momma
To try and tell her
again,
what happened
to explain
Between tears and
what did you say
and failed attempts to just breathe
Hers, not yours
To clarify
That here, the streets 
Of summer vacations
with Aunties and grandmas
Are not paved in good times or gold 
instead, are stained a deathly red
Foul, draining
From him
where his hands were up, still
She keeps asking after
His last 15 minutes
Inquiring after my whereabouts
questioning in silence 
how I laid not next to him
yet wondering aloud
How he came to be 
There. On the street
In daylight
When the vampires 
Showed up to drain 
His life's blood
How did they 
Move so swiftly
Without cover of night
She demands and
asks once or twice more-
what did he say?
I don’t know the answer
not sure it matters
his last words
Our collective silence
Across wires speak volumes
reminds us of 
golden days
When we marched
down streets with purpose
And not
down the middle with none
Where an opaque, angry hose
was far less deadly
Than the lifeless iron pumping
Vicious shots that 
Do more than sting, burn
fling us violently--backward
They also pierce
And knock us off feet
His feet bring us back
they are there, 
awkward, limp
like bronzed baby shoes
That once swung 
in the breeze
below rearview mirrors
hers.
we both are looking
Behind us 
And wondering 
how in the midst of the
fame and notoriety
he is receiving now
Amidst the chanting of his name
the signs, the looting,
and cocktails
The pictures on the news at 6, 11
And again at 5pm and am
On the web
Amongst the monks
and missiles
and the Palestines
We can't forget the Palestines...
Kneeling in pools
Leaked from their own brethren
But holding signs
That relate in solidarity
across time
and war zones
We wonder
How can we rewind
to his last 15 minutes
And plead alongside
the souls of all those
who fell similarly
before him
with everything in us-
Don’t go out there
and especially--don't run
for even your hands up
Won’t save you
no, not at all
especially
today

Read the poetry of Lynne Rachell
Read a profile of Lynne Rachell


Jacqueline Czel Has Her Own News Commentary

PictureJacqueline Czel






Breaking News

The Right turns left,
The Left turns right,
perhaps,
I'll turn off
the news tonight,

But
first, first,
last, last,
they're counting votes
as hours pass.

Then
win, win,
lose, lose,
some poor
coach is singing
the blues.

A
bitch pitch,
mud slings,
no news - foxy cues
an agenda rings.

And
black, black,
white, white
a little race baiting
to boost ratings
in sight.

Not
good, good
it's
bad, bad
war, war,
more than
a little sad.

Posts, posts,
by
hosts, hosts,
hollow commentary
from
teleprompter ghosts.

Read the poetry of Jacqueline Czel
Read a profile of Jacqueline Czel



A Trio Of Tanka From Poet Stephanie Brennan

PictureStephanie Brennan







Three Tanka

in the night
I hear the dog’s too long nails
on the wood floor
it is said that fingernails
lengthen when you die

       ❧

our old house
stuck in the burnished beams
so many words
lobbed haphazardly
while no one was listening

        ❧

in the taxi
an exotic atmosphere
of smoke and scent
deja vu
and her mother’s secret

Read the poetry of Stephanie Brennan
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Shan Ellis Shares Her Latest Poem, "Bereft."

PictureShan Ellis

Bereft

Somewhere beneath
intertwined in solaced limbs,
we lay breathless
in anticipation.

Sleep succored iambs,
sweetened ripened fruit
which plopped
undignified from breaking bows
hung with weight of maturity.

Awoken,
tenderness of gently placed kiss
nurturing to life
deft reverie
darkness ululating.

In tranquility
souls although lost
wondered fortunately
between roots
nourishing and replenished

found whole whilst bereft

Read the poetry of Shan Ellis
Read a profile of Shan Ellis


Poet Chen-ou Liu Is Back, With New Haiku And Tanka

PictureChen-ou Liu






A Selection of Haiku and Tanka


blood-stained lily...
I lock her secret
in a haiku 


          ❧

Inside the church
the congregation praying
under Jesus' gaze
two Romani women
in the trash-littered square

               ❧

               a white butterfly
                    flying from branch to branch
                    thoughts of my ex 


        ❧

looking out a window
across Lake Ontario
the aroma
of crucian carp soup
fills the gaps in my heart


Read the poetry of Chen-ou Liu
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Janet Aalfs' Latest Addition To Her New Series Of Poems

PictureJanet Aalfs






What the Dead Want Me to Know


and light finds us
with the other loves
dawn sunders
to define.

                   ~Eavan Boland


15. Anne Jeanette's Tapestry

Anne Jeanette sat down in the snowmelt,
shallow span of water she swirled,
quiet from the sky, painted
from the trees, her baby
brother, my father, asleep.
He drank those lullabies.
I watched through an upstairs doorway
hands conducting the wind,
a palindrome for balance.
And though she couldn't have heard me,
she offered toward my fingers
in response to the question unasked
a cat's cradle of words. Strings
at angles hummed and shifted,
gray from the rocks, sung
from the finches, rooted in asters,
purple and gold. Yes, this story, she said,
a pasque flower my father trampled
is the one I told to the hills,
seven miles there, seven miles back.
I was only a girl
walking the world
to be here.


Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs
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Dan Shawn's Usual Unusual In "universal acid"

PictureDan Shawn






universal acid

my father was a
veterinarian
a lazy one at that

and when I was born
he simply stood by and
watched as my mother
circumcised me
with a carrot peeler

the trauma left its mark so to speak

mom and dad split up when I was five
she ran off with the butcher's wife
he patented universal acid
a liquid that no container can hold

we don’t talk much these days
and the earth is slowly dissolving

Read the poetry of Dan Shawn
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A New Poem From Angie Werren

PictureAngie Werren






flight

I want to photograph
a flock of tiny birds
swooping simultaneously
from bare-branch tree to
swaying high wire
 
I want to capture the surprise
this sudden rise     into air
 
(an unexpected testimony of flight)
 
but here
now
your face
 
(and all the things that moved
when you flew)

Read the poetry of Angie Werren
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A Seasonal Offering From Poet Leslie Philibert

PictureLeslie Philibert







Autumn

Autumn is a frozen church
We wait at heavy doors
That smell of rust

Not a Moon cold enough
To be called heartless
Or breathclouds of old steam

More an estuary of
Dumped mist, afraid to ice,
The taste of wax on your lips,

The frame of hair round a 
Hatted face, our steps as slow
As if we tread water

You are ice and rain and
The first crystals and even
More than this, beside me. 

Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
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A New Poem From Poet E. Michael Desilets

PictureE. Michael Desilets







Anchorage Catholics

upright on the padded kneelers in their diminutive
cathedral except for Sean, whose posture and .....demeanor
remind everyone of the infamous  pallet-stacking
incident at the cannery.  He hasn’t eaten halibut
since high school.  He blesses himself, mutters about
tufted puffins and chuckles.  Brigid, whose special
intention involves the gargantuan rash on her son’s .....back,
will have to open the gift shop soon
no matter what.
No matter how
hard she prays, Loretta is destined
to sit in a fat man’s lap
for the foreseeable future.  Wilfred, as always,
prays in harsh whispers for his mother,
 
whose umbrella he clutches fondly.
She has a tumor the size of a flapjack
draped over her brain, he reminds St. Jude.
Judge Garrett, retired now for an eternity,
busies himself with fussy altar errands,
genuflecting at every opportunity
so as not to slight the Real Presence.
For a change there are plenty of seats
available at the Snow City Café,
where Father Budra  will take his sweet time
over his Ship Creek Benedict.  He hears the wind
zigzag out on Fifth Avenue.  The hearse, idling
behind a troika of tour buses, will be delayed
in any case.
  

Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
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Poet Ana Caballero and "The Napkin Trick"

PictureAna Caballero







The Napkin Trick

It’s been done before:

The intention of conversation
starts and ends with a slow walk
around a familiar, short block --
the light purse or empty pocket.

(Tonight
after all
should only call for some cash.)

A set of doors is chosen
but not broached,

and reluctance comes as a reminder

of isolated drinks
where music from cars
(circling the block in search of a parking spot)
is forgotten
on the front and back
of a red paper napkin.

Read the poetry of Ana Caballero
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Kelli Russell Agodon's Letter To Her Sister

PictureKelli Russell Agodon






Letter to My Sister Who is Still Drowning

You tell me about the ovenbird,
its orange crown traveling swamps after sunset.

You tell me it keeps an infant under its wing
and that birds sense children underwater.

The dishes have soaked overnight
and though you know it’s just your reflection
between suds, you mention Jude,
how saints appear in the waves of every body
of water.

We never talk about the summer you disappeared
into the lake, a kingfisher hovering over the shadow
of where you just were

How I watched from land, watched water
exit from your chest, your mouth
in a burst as our father tossed you to shore
shouting:
             Breathe, breathe!

Sometimes, I don’t know how to respond
when you open the refrigerator door and laugh
because you see a vision in the cantaloupe.

Someone has carved Mary into the orange center,
you say as if this world has not flooded around us,
as if everything in this life made sense.


Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon
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A New Poem From The Pen Of Naki Akrobettoe

PictureNaki Akrobettoe


December 14, 2012

I prayed to the ripe moon
Full grey and white, to grant me
Solitude, a quiet room, and a birth
Absent of modern medicine.
2 am came crashing upon that warm
December 14, 2013 morning—sleep
Slipping through the grasp of my reach.
I tossed from each side like skiing on
Icy slopes. Within blinks I was covered
With cream blankets to heat the cold,
Interrogated about my recent stripes of
Love scars of previous births. You madam,
Were next in line to be written in history.
A trilogy turned Trinity with each wave of
Contraction, I surfed clinching to my
Retractable bed. Holy water sprinkled on
My forehead after each confessional of
Father God and Fuck you. Bullets of pain
Shot down towards the hell of heavy thighs
And when your crown peek-a-booed through
My temple, I whispered these praises, Thank you,
I survived. All I wanted was the menu: a cheeseburger
With pepper jack cheese, chicken broth, a turkey
Sandwich on wheat and ginger ale—Seagram or
Canada Dry. After I ate we rested, you were pinned
Like a proud button of my bravery to my bare chest
In honor of our travail through the sorrow of leaving a ....safe space--
My womb to now entering a world of unknown--Selah


Read the poetry of Naki Akrobettoe
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We Welcome The Poetry and Photo Art Of Reka Jellema

PictureReka Jellema






We beat the blacks
& whites
with angry fists
until the blues bled
anything but blue


Picture
Photo art by Reka Jellema
Empty bottle blues
a walk to the liquor store
I end up in an igloo
on another continent
wearing someone else's shoes

Picture
Photo art by Reka Jellema
The poetry and art of Reka Jellema
Read a profile of Reka Jellema


Charles Bane, Jr., Gives Us His Poem, "My Father"

PictureCharles Bane, Jr.







My Father

My father took me to the park
where an old man was walking
a dog. I rushed to the dog and
asked his owner what breed he
was. His speech came slurred,
from stroke, and my father made
up a reply. My father said the owner
was saying he was a fine dog, ever faithful
and that owner and dog were
the best of friends.
Flash forward to my father's last
appearance publicly at a meeting
of Englishmen. He'd forgotten where
we were or what was required. I spoke
of caravels bearing reason to outposts
beyond reach of sun. That a ship had borne him
where he formed a bond to the
Island People undimmed and standing
now. I said my father believed the only
surety in a storm was the fastness of
common law and for this knowledge his
gratitude could not be expressed. There was an
ovation and I stepped back.

Read the poetry of Charles Bane, Jr.
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A New Poem From Poet Paul Mortimer

PicturePaul Mortimer





Carrying the years

The weight of years
captured in this moment
of stoop and sticks.
Frayed life worn like
some badge...
no
make that badges.
Mop heads clinging to joints
speaking as each stiff step is made.
Entropy outwardly worn for all to see
And yet
and yet
that sideways glance forbids
any murmur of sympathy. Though
outwardly the gossamer swirling
round your head is web-like
That look
That look
whispers there is still a life to be had.

Read the poetry of Paul Mortimer
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We Welcome Poet David Chorlton To The Pages Of VerseWrights

PictureDavid Chorlton






Dust

About ten miles north of Tucson
the wind begins to dig
into gravel beside
the driveway to a prefabricated house
set down without roots
and feels for the desert underneath.
It stirs a devil from a waste lot
and pulls at the foundations
of a motel down on its luck,
scoops up portions
                        of a field upon which
no rain has fallen in months
and loosens the surface, revealing the layer
above the layer where history
is recorded:
               the sandal prints a priest made
stained with candle wax and tears;
a horseshoe that brought no luck; the marks
created by a man’s fingers
when he crawled toward water
without knowing which direction
to take. Here is Pima dust,
Apache dust,
                dust that bloomed
behind stagecoaches
and settled back into the earth
mixed with the dust a pickup truck
kicked back from its tires. And here
comes the wind, out of a clear sky,
gently at first, just a whisper
asking the ground what it’s hiding,
and gradually it grows to a shout,
then a scream that carries all the way
to Phoenix. The late sun
                                    reflects on every grain
as the yellow mass swells
and draws strength from the ground
it moves across, tearing the topsoil
to release whatever lies beneath
and raise it to
a dry tide rolling
three thousand feet high.
At this moment the traffic
has surrendered, planes have been grounded
and time stops
with visibility zero,
                        not a bargain in sight at the mall,
no progress to believe in, no
history to deny; only the land the white man stole
reassembling itself as a cloud
and moving back to take the city
built where the Hohokam
had once
been neighbors to the sun.

Read the poetry of David Chorlton
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As The Seasons Change, A Poem From Michael Lee Johnson

PictureMichael Lee Johnson







The Seasons and the Slants

I live my life inside my patio window.
It’s here, at my business desk I slip
into my own warm pajamas and slippers-
seek Jesus, come to terms
with my own cross and brittle conditions.
Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,
the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves
go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,
behind willow tree bare limb branches-
they lose their faces in somber hue.
Their voices at night abbreviate
and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.
With this poetic mind, no one cares
about the seasons and the slants
the wind or its echoes.
I live my life inside my patio window.


Read the poetry of Michael Lee Johnson
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"Sycamores," A New Poem From Laura Madeline Wiseman

PictureLaura Madeline Wiseman







Sycamores

They’ve begun to overlap, those college apartments,
blending, growing taller, and strewn with baubles
like cherries of amore: snowdrifts to the windows,
boggy spring, or summer of bloodthirsty gnats.
Now the root extends into darkness, branches
clutch the sky, hard and frantic, as the core softens
(insects, disease, age) and rots. But that bedroom view
remains open and wide, braided sinuously
in the center of the body, some pulsing fold
that embraces want. Yes, it was cut down:
those petals of bark—brittle, fragile to the touch.


Read the poetry of Laura Madeline Wiseman
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