Archive 15
September, 2014
Poet Witty Fay "Quantifies" The Hug Witty 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" Jerry 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 Tim 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. VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes
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A New Poem From The Pen Of Sharon Brogan Sharon 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 Read a profile of Sharon Brogan Tracey Gunne's Latest Poem, "Triggers" Tracey 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 Read a profile of Tracey Gunne We Welcome Our Newest Poet, Lynne Rachell Lynne 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 Jacqueline 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 Stephanie 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 Read a profile of Stephanie Brennan Shan Ellis Shares Her Latest Poem, "Bereft." Shan 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 Chen-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 Read a profile of Chen-ou Liu Janet Aalfs' Latest Addition To Her New Series Of Poems Janet 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 Read a profile of Janet Aalfs Dan Shawn's Usual Unusual In "universal acid" Dan 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 Read a profile of Dan Shawn A New Poem From Angie Werren Angie 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 Read a profile of Angie Werren |
A Seasonal Offering From Poet Leslie Philibert Leslie 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 Read a profile of Leslie Philibert A New Poem From Poet E. Michael Desilets E. 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 Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets Poet Ana Caballero and "The Napkin Trick" Ana 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 Read a profile of Ana Caballero Kelli Russell Agodon's Letter To Her Sister Kelli 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 Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon A New Poem From The Pen Of Naki Akrobettoe Naki 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 Read a profile of Naki Akrobettoe We Welcome The Poetry and Photo Art Of Reka Jellema Reka Jellema
We beat the blacks & whites with angry fists until the blues bled anything but blue 
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 
Photo art by Reka Jellema
Charles Bane, Jr., Gives Us His Poem, "My Father" Charles 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. Read a profile of Charles Bane, Jr. A New Poem From Poet Paul Mortimer Paul 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 Read a profile of Paul Mortimer We Welcome Poet David Chorlton To The Pages Of VerseWrights David 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 Read a profile of David Chorlton As The Seasons Change, A Poem From Michael Lee Johnson Michael 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 Read a profile of Michael Lee Johnson "Sycamores," A New Poem From Laura Madeline Wiseman Laura 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 Read a profile of Laura Madeline Wiseman |
