Archive #19
January, 2015
Poet Cristina Umpfenbach Now On The Pages Of VerseWrights Cristina Umpfenbach
Acoustic Memories He wakes, aware of sound, rhythmic against the window pane. …. Rain. He cannot see her in the dark. sprawled beside him. ......remembers long legged high breasted beauty. Startled she feels his touch. Fingers make their way fumble, explore. “Touch me” he whispers. She reaches out, cups him in her hand, gently, holds his flaccid flesh, dares not to hope for more. Dementia pierced by sound, remembrances of touch. Kind darkness fills the room. The rain stops. He startles, withdraws deep into the pillows. Silence sweats with fear. .......he remembers nothing more Read the poetry of Cristina Umpfenbach Read a profile of Cristina Umpfenbach A New Poem From The Pen Of J Matthew Waters J Matthew Waters
all alleys lead to sand and salt water
walking away from the sunset shopping for the next place to sleep eyes remain optimistic of a tomorrow promising pay all alleys in this pacific coast city lead to sand and saltwater along the way housing is made from cardboard and wire and unfinished dreams familiar hopeful faces unite and welcome the wonders of the day their hands busily preparing to feed five thousand Read the poetry of J. Matthew Waters Read a profile of J. Matthew Waters An Offering Of Short Poems From Juliet Wilson Juliet Wilson
Admired Strange how deep under her skin he is. She only knows him through his distant admiration across darkened dance-floors and concert halls. His desire waterfalls down her spine, unnerves her, his heart’s poetry troubles her through his hungry eyes. She finds herself looking out for him, wonders how much she likes to be admired, how much she’s learning to admire? Three Haiku sharing another secret - unfolding buds. insomnia - the herring gulls laugh at the early dawn. a snake slithers across the balcony - sudden thunder. Read the poetry of Juliet Wilson Read a profile of Juliet Wilson We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet Victor Perrotti Victor Perrotti
existential crossroads ☊ we arrive at the crossroads with baggage in tow sometimes too heavy, for one person like frost when he fled for the dismal swamp in despair, of a rejected marriage proposal or van gogh when he cut off, a piece of his ear in remorse, of having threatened his friend — gauguin, with a razor or you when you contemplated suicide in anguish, of believing the world is a better place without you comes profound sorrow to consider i may never have taken “The Road Not Taken” i may never have stared into Starry Night and i may never have been touched — by you Charles Bane, Jr.'s "Come, Beloved" (with video) Charles Bane, Jr.
Come, Beloved ☊ I am hungry; come soon. I looked tonight at flames like you upon the west and jewels winging home. I hold you in my eyes when I see what cannot be stamped again. All the earth is of a kind but for the rarities that clamber unknowing of their gifts on vales of purest light, and look at the common life of us in shade. Come beloved, soon. We Welcome Poet Björn Rudberg To The Pages Of VerseWrights Björn Rudberg
Her Hands are Kites Her hands are kites that battle over Kabul, the year before arrival of the talibans the windows in her hair are dressed in gauze and in her voice she hides, the seed-pods that never will be put in fertile soil. She tells a story of her golden child to silent organs played on empty bottles. A symphony of Makers Mark and Cutty Sark of the child with moonlit marbles in his eyes, her child that left before he stayed. But soon the withered branch will snap and from the anthill in her flesh she'll rise to dance with clouds released in habit of defeat, and from her brow the marigold will bloom to celebrate the absence of herself. Read the poetry of Björn Rudberg Read a profile of Björn Rudberg In Robert Nied's New Poem, He Is Out Of Sync, Out of Luck... Robert Nied
Your Face, Disappointed I sit naked and watch the winter snow And sharpen the ice scraper in the summer sun. I drink iced tea in December sip hot soup in July I read old love letters and forget you said goodbye. I listen to a waltz when my legs are tired and sore and sing when I can’t hear myself think. I work the night shift, and sleep through the day to avoid seeing you turn and walk the other way. I study days upon days for imaginary tests and arrive precisely for appointments I don’t have. I never answer the phone and have no machine. Your face, disappointed, is in all of my dreams. Read the poetry of Robert Nied Read a profile of Robert Nied Debby Strange Shares A "Tanshi:" A Short Poem With Photo-art
PhotoArt by Debbie Strange
by the lamp
of a full Thunder Moon I wrote this storm with lightning bolts dipped in wells of rain Read the poetry of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange Poet Gary Metras Turns To Greek Mythology In His New Poem Gary Metras
The Anonymous Closet The dark is just the dark where moons lack phase, shadow upon faceless shadow. The still air of being minus the being itself where smile is indulgence, lips of nothing. Without Helen, no Hektor. No death, no story. Only Iphigenia growing old, bitter in her anonymous closet. An empty mountain throne. Heroes everywhere silenced. Slugs slugging along cold stone. Let Briseis shout to all the warriors, I am no man’s prize as she withers among dented armor. See: Vultures rising on thermals. Read the poetry of Gary Metras Read a profile of Gary Metras Mark MacDonald Brings Us His Newest Poem, "Phenomena" Mark MacDonald
Phenomena This bird or that—the pigeon just dropped to the curbside to feed, or the Florida Spruce Jay gone nearly extinct? An event from your childhood you had hoped to forget—the long vacant house and the body of the girl the police took a year to identify. Fullness, decline, and decomposition-- anything tethered to process or choked in its time. Salami, foreclosure, or genocide. This bird or that—the sparrow just flown from the clothesline to breed, or the solitude thrush too startled to sing? Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet David Adès David Adès
The House I Built And if the house I built gave shelter to you briefly, however briefly, when you came and cried about your spurned heart, buried your words in my ears unseeing, and if sometimes I warmed you with my fire when all you knew was ash, and you did not notice the warmth and spoke on with a furrow between your eyes, and if my hands never landed upon your skin, never spoke their speech, their shy longing, and if our eyes gazed out the open windows and the roof was nothing but sky, and if we never grazed each other’s lips except with laughter and with smiles, and if we harvested hours on a bench at the Botanical Gardens, bathed in birdsong and sunlight, and spoke not just to one another but to the secret chambers in our hearts, was this not briefly, however briefly, a house of love? Read the poetry of David Adès Read a profile of David Adès 
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Simon Kindt's Poem Is A Lyrical Lifting Simon
Kindt
Up, Up, Up You find yourself complaining that your back -bent by nothing but the dead weight of your head- is too old and sore to bend when she lifts her tiny hands to you and asks you to lift her high. And there you are- struck dumb and wondering if your father remembers the last time he lifted you, whether he knew that this time (this begged for one more time) would be the last. And you think of how one day when he is old and frail and thin with ghosts, you might yet bend to carry him, from a hospital bed perhaps, into the fading light, or down into the earth. And you think of all the lasts that punctuate this thing that is your life as she lifts her hands again and your aching back bends and you raise her to the light. Read the poetry of Simon Kindt Read a profile of Simon Kindt Rowan Taw's Latest Poem Depicts A Beautiful Sadness Rowan Taw
She Descends in Sunshine She sits in sunshine – not in her private room. Communal lounge an open space, fresh air filtering aging staleness, curtains straining light, a translucent membrane partitioning her internal present from her external past. She’s self-aware. She knows she won’t remember my name. She knows that facts are missing, memories are slipping. She knows she misses her sons, but how many she can’t recall. Her fingers fidget, nails immaculate, shaped in soft rose enamel, her daughter’s act of tenderness. But she would never ask her children to come. We talk as others bleat: baa-baa-baa single syllable repeats – an adult child returned to the babbling phase. The sound fades as staff stall his daily escape attempt. We look on, as she looks on this descent of man, knowing her own trajectory, mind falling in slow motion. We talk of weather, the darkness and continual rain. She doesn’t believe in letting it get her down – we must make our own sunbeams. So here she sits in sunshine – not in her private room. Read the poetry of Rowan Taw Read a profile of Rowan Taw We Welcome Poet Allison Grayhurst To Versewrights Allison Grayhurst
Walks Birds are always speaking like fleeting lines of poetry-- these wisps of miracles, dive into the schizophrenic’s mind, his pathway—slow, slow and unthreatening, they dive, but only people of the bird tribe can hear, only other animals whose senses are heightened, whose souls are twofold—raw and divine. Otherwise, it is dusk and dust and love is held in, made weak by complications and chaos in the aura. Otherwise, the child rises from bed with dread linked to her pyjama lace, already crushed by the world without an inkling as to why. Cats crouch and freeze—a culture tied to their nature. Like them, I am tied to my nature in the way I walk-- feet down, eyes up and waiting for that one angel to look me in the eyes and tell me all. Read the poetry of Allison Grayhurst Read a profile of Allison Grayhurst Marianne Paul's New Poem, "leaving tracks" Marianne Paul
leaving tracks |
