Two Of Poet Evie Ivy's Latest Poems
Whom you don’t know
When you hear
Half a story?
I don’t know anyone.
Who knows anyone?
That’s why they’ll
Say he was such a nice boy,
After the fact.
She was such a good mother,
After the act.
My heart pounds
Yet strums the guitar.
I don’t know anyone.
I could only say I know
There are dreams engraved in the mind
morning did not have a chance to dispel
from the real. You could bring them on,
vivid pictures on the screen of memory.
But some dreams fragment, move on out
leaving behind sad or somehow felicitous
feelings, but you can’t remember the dream.
Its pieces flow with your sad or happy
dream into a huge mental void that can
match that of the universe, with your dream
embossed on them. They float in so slightly
uneven colored shreds - a lost work of art?
Fragments of something have left you wondering
whether it was an important piece or not...
Read the poetry of Evie Ivy
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We Warmly Welcome Poet Ken Slaughter to VerseWrights
from Selected Tanka and Senyru...
in the crossword puzzle
my brother left
at the cancer clinic…
answers we never find
I ask if the dragonflies
on a cloudless night
my friend points a finger
at the Big Dipper…
for most of my life
I’ve followed the wrong star
that are never written
in the woods
the song of a thrush
Read the poetry of Ken Slaughter
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From Poet Matthew Henningsen:
Lee Kisling And The Silence Of History
Behind the Fence
Rusted dinosaur innards
behind that seven foot high wooden fence
parked in immobilized rows, the junk cars sleep.
The big-finned Pontiac, the drop-top LeSabre,
smacked up, motors seized,
abandoned and forgotten, these
proud one-owner beauties, tires bald with worry.
They are ashamed
and therefore hidden from view.
The lapse in attention –
the fender, the fluids, the column of steam,
the roadless wheel turning in the air.
Skid marks, glass fragments, injuries.
The Rambler, the station wagon bones,
we mustn’t see them. They lie
behind the wooden fence.
Maybe a shade tree man in a ball cap,
no good, finally, at fixing the mechanically expired,
or it might have been a lemon –
this place is the end of the road.
Dragged behind the fence
to bleach in the sun and settle into the dirt
for years and years of quiet rest -
horns still, radios dumb,
collector coins deep in the upholstery.
In blistered mirrors, objects may appear more distant
in memory than they are,
more silent than the stories they tell each other.
Behind the fence
the private battered cars lay low –
the humpback Dodge, the flatbed Ford.
We mustn’t see them.
Read the poetry of Lee Kisling
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Two New Poems From Poet Witty Fay
A length of hair traded
For the health of a child,
That breathe of sweaty worry
And the scent of hope
Rising against the flimsy dawn.
I hear color
Fabricating foamy trolls
Under caramel bridges,
The way it modulates the eye
In bright shades of bitterness.
There lies the promise of a half-day
On the sycamore tree
Of flaking joys,
Uprooted and swallowed
Into the wombless fire
Of the one who sells the mane
To cheat fate.
Sweet chariots of glow
Roll their roughness
Sketching my limbs
Into rivers of joy.
As they grow on the root
Of their aloofness,
Sparkle and remote
Hold the corners of the cross
In cahoots with time.
We stand stranded
Behind the floating of the day,
And the muteness of the night.
Read the poetry of Witty Fay
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Poet Jill Lapin-Zell's Poem Asks A Most Human Question
A Fundamental Question
the afternoon’s turned cool and gray
with cloud shadows and spring breezes
oozing over the mountains
like sweet honey from an over-filled jar
and I’m wondering
why we aren’t curled up with each other
on a sofa
legs entwined and heads together
like children whispering outlandish secrets
giggling the remaining day into night
I want to reach out and touch you
breathe in the scent of your hair
feel the rhythm of your heartbeat
as my lips rest against your temple
these aching moments of missing you
eat away at body, mind and spirit
give rise to the fundamental question:
can you come over to play tonight?
Read the poetry of Jill Lapin-Zell
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Poet Roslyn Ross Writes Of Leaving Malawi For Her Homeland
The jacarandas are in flower
as the blossoms fall purple,
small deaths, sighing at
the side of open suitcases,
coming to rest in the dust of
gathering memories, waiting
to be packed along with the
myriad possessions; dregs
of life and tree, scattered in
that song of inevitable ending,
where what was, can be no
more and what is, calls, in
soulful whisper, reminding
all is impermanent, nothing
lasts, or can endure, beyond
its allotted time and for the
expatriate, there will always
be a moment to go home, just
as the tree sheds its beauty,
making way for something
new, and for that which is
destined to come after -
fated to the turn of the wheel
of life, the eternal cycle,
slowly spinning in silence,
unseen, revolutions of days
and minutes, dropping into
the past, as the now rises
in gentle roll, to the top of
consciousness, holding for
a brief reality, impressed
as template of our being;
so we begin and move to
our created end, which
has always been written
even if we did not know it.
Read the poetry of Roslyn Ross
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Two New Poems From Poet Ana Caballero
Born of the first stone, I am witch:
Spellbound by small elements,
snails in the throat, birds on the lip.
There is a hiding behind the trunk
of a dead tree, a memory
of morning, a reckoning.
There are no men, no children.
No women with soft worries.
No confidences or shared will.
But when I blow the lonesome wind,
the wooded land breathes in.
Together we become the ancient word,
a god released.
The greatest thing about not loving you
Is not giving time
Leaving the view alone
The thought almost well
It was a moment of smallness
It can be described
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Wayne F. Burke And An Aging Superhero
(Note: The Sub-Mariner was a Marvell Comics
superhero, dating from 1939)
The Sub-Mariner, 60-plus years old
he's still got the little wings
and the Max Baer body
but he's not as quick
as he was
and he's gulping for air
though still powerful
but routinely late
to the scene,
who stop for doughnuts,
he gets there
in his own sweet time,
moving in like a manta ray
with arms out-stretched
like in a crucifixion
only more symbol now
than the real thing...
The seas grew too big
and he began to know
the shark, the barracuda, the electric eel
he used to drive away
no longer move at
and even the walrus,
and the wrinkled skin around the arm pits--
doesn't move for him--
everything has changed,
and The Sub-Mariner
does not know
if for the better.
Read the poetry of Wayne F. Burke
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A Rumination For The Season, From Poet Mikels Skele
In abrupt autumn
one sees much of expectation
wither and dissipate
as if never taken seriously,
as if intentions of good will
and promises of productive labor,
— all leaving of self in favor of virtue --
gone like a good but tardy
glacier, dim and dry,
parsed to the death.
What remains is that wispy thread,
barely traceable, but more real and reliable
than all the will gathered in all the
small rooms and resolutions of change,
the thread that runs umbilical,
winding though good or ill,
tying together all the disparate selves
pasted together in the course of a life.
In this suddenly strange autumn,
in this fall, it is the unreality
that glows, beacon-like,
though, in the end, what you remember
is that carnal you,
that piece of protoplasmic geometry.
And you ask yourself, is that me?
And yet, there is memory, inconstant,
but persistently convincing.
I understand the consciousness of others,
the subjectivity of their being,
but not my own,
not my own.
Read the poetry of Mikels Skele
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Two New Poems From Poet Ken W. Simpson
as the sun sets
and dappled patterns
against flimsy blinds.
and the spires
of distant pines
as the wind rises
and palm fronds
as if trying to break free.
A Degree of Propinquity
Memories of old friends
flare and flicker
then fade as glimpses
of familiar faces
names and places
the house next door
an approaching pram
a car rolling, slowly
down a driveway
towards the street
where moods of sadness
beguiled by moments
of hypothetical happiness.
Read the poetry of Ken W. Simpson
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Kim Talon: Mood Pieces For The Season
Reka Jellema Finds Glory Between Lift
in the park
leaves swirl twirl around
to a shrike’s call
through the bamboos
in the cooling breeze
a hint of sun
a couple embraces
under the weeping willow
the colors of fall
comes to our picnic, then
ant ant ant ant ant
in the now dry stream
--the toddler’s laugh
the bamboo’s creak
so like my own
as we leave
tree shadows lengthen
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