Archive 2
August, 2013
Two Short Verses From Ashley Bovan
 Ashley Bovan
Whatever It Is whatever it is that holds the sky together got ripped open and the expected deluge was more of a rebirth ‐a heaviness from the ground upwards‐ breaking these leftovers from winter ‐memories of memories that are now things‐ Shoulders shimmy The beat goes slow quarter tempo Your organza dress The mystery Such a Bothersome Color Give me a good black. Give me a solid white. Gray is so namby‐pamby; useless as a friend, too soft to give a good kicking. At night, when I lie down, I like to know where I stand. I keep a pistol under my pillow. Read the poetry of Ashley Bovan Read a profile of Ashley Bovan Now on VerseWrights: Poet Frank Watson
 Frank Watson
The Distant Bells Night whimpers its last gasp with the smoke that lingers from solo chimneys reflected in the moonlit sky. Breath chokes on nighttime mist, harbinger of impending rain, a funeral procession, the notes to a blues night. My voice is damp; I listen to the distant bells beneath a roof that offers thin shelter from the coming storm. She runs her hands she runs her hands along the poppy field as if in an opium haze Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York City. He enjoys literature, art, calligraphy, history, jazz, international culture, and travel. His books include Fragments: poetry, ancient & modern (editor), One Hundred Leaves: a new, annotated translation of the Hyakunin Isshu (editor and translator), and The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry (editor). His work has also appeared in Rosebud and Bora literary magazines. Frank shares his work on his poetry blog (www.followtheblueflute.com) and @FollowBlueFlute, his Twitter account. Read. "The Chase," A New Poem From Cheryl Snell
 Cheryl Snell
The Chase A man rounds the corner, zigzag shadow reaching for the woman who steps out of it. He’s a late-comer, can’t catch up to the lady strolling through dusk that blazed gold only this morning. He’d pulled the quilt over his head, begged the clock for ten more minutes but she’d already pitched forward into events no one can plan for. Along straggling streets that will never connect them, the woman moves on. Behind her, the man elbows through the crush, searching all the places where a door is left ajar. A wedge of light spills onto steps falling from the house into the hooded evening. He’d have followed her the way she wanted, but night curves without warning, the stars do not touch, the road stretches down to the sea. Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell Read a profile of Cheryl Snell "The Verdict" From Natalie Keller
 Natalie Keller
The Verdict She came as if from a great cloud, her hair a mass of constellations, her skin a milky hue. It was morning time, and the mortals were just waking - pouring their coffee, ironing their shirts, and reading their newspapers. She looked upon them like a teacher might look upon a misguided student, with distaste and with remorse, because they had, after all, missed the entire point, and she didn’t feel like explaining it all over again. She knew that with a touch of her hand their world would disintegrate into nothing, but she was wise, the cloud woman, and understood the very cruelest punishment was to let them be, so she turned and vanished back into the sky from whence she came, leaving them to their lives and their ironing boards Read the poetry of Natalie Keller Read a profile of Natalie Keller A Lyric Spark From Janet Aalfs
 Janet Aalfs
One Spark the silence from within the generator humming the radio voice the ringside cheers one spark defies the herd the murderous circuit sputters then one breath that dares the bolt to strike the shadow-hand of white supremacy the electric chair its killing juice to quit one surge that flips the breaker frees the light the many share incites the courage to step to soothe the wounded ground to unknot the twisted tongue to right the unspeakable wrong one spark ignites the silence from within where truth begins Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs Read a profile of Janet Aalfs A New Poem from Kelli Russell Agodon
 Kelli Russell Agodon
If I Ever Mistake You For a Poem No body was ever composed from words, not the hipsway of verse, the iambic beat of a heart. Yet inside you, a sestina of arteries, the villanelle of villi, sonnets between your shoulder blades. If I were more obsessive I’d follow the alliteration of age spots across your arms. But I have exchanged my microscope for a stethoscope as I want to listen inside you, past your repetition, your free verse of skin. How easy it is to fall for your internal organs. Your arrhythmia is charming hidden in the ballad of body, your gurgling stanzas, your lyric sigh. Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon From Paul Sands: "Blue Sky Drinking"
 Paul Sands
Blue Sky Drinking Coltrane may be riding with me but these blues are different waves of linseed breathing into the pastel edges and rising through the cocaine lines scratched into a deeper hue and under this hullaballoo I drive to the water past the sanitised lies of tarmac and brick until I can sit on the banks and choke on a pig in a poke as my roast crumbles and drowns in the foam round but from then three whole hours with no human sound where I watch the fowl ketch downstream with their downy cargo pursued sometimes by the spreading chevron of an earlier brood that breaks in two the single mirrored cloud audience to the bovine students of Constable’s bucolic porn as slivered fry, like shards of ice, roll in the shallows of this blissful silence. I have no need for words even for the carrion, mistaken from far as sofa or chair, a simple nod will suffice while the damsels dance and date and die the violaceous thistle downed and crowned shouts “gather round” to the birds and the bees and I half expect to see a mole and rat sculling with a hamper astern and I check the arm of the yard and discern never to early for a cold one after all it’s only self preservation but not before a bus flashes by screeches and cries as the driver waves and flagellates her empty seats for it’s now a buzz so full it is of wasps and bees Read the poetry of Paul Sands Read a profile of Paul Sands Marie Anzalone: "black hair and sapphire"
 Marie Anzalone
black hair and sapphire You were cruel, but not in ways more measurable than our peers and, well, cruelty was a code of living anyway. You were the only one then I wished had seen past my uncoolness, my non-cruelty, an absence where a cigarette should be, legs too long and clothes nowhere near anything resembling style, and a mind too interested in the content of books for anyone's friends. Would it have been different had it been you, not the football player my dad wanted me seen with, that took my virginity? I wanted you more. How does an invisible girl speak, even now? You should have left that place, too. Anger is too high a risk factor for those of us drawn with too much to fill the stingy space allotted on a page that expectation has already outlined for us in shades of dull mining town desolation gray. we bled outside of the lines. when do those roles of "too good" and "not good enough," reverse? I smiled to learn that you became a bodybuilder who loved ABBA. Yes, I thought, that fits the fuck you world Paulie I knew. I wished I had told you the lead in my first novel, the one I grew too ashamed to finish- she had your black hair and sapphire eyes. It was the only voice I ever knew how to speak to you with. for Paul, 1975-2013 Read Marie Anzalone's poetry Read a profile of Marie Anzalone Dan Shawn Gives Us A Little Verse to Digest
 Dan Shawn
Space Food i’m the guy who labours late into the night to invent the synthetic meat you know the kind that grows on Petri dishes Big Science has this quest to replace the cow and pig with cells that crawl about like grains of rice on agar we'll herd them like pink worms and train them not to invade your liver don't forget to wash your hands it smells “down there" Read the poetry of Dan Shawn Read a profile of Dan Shawn |
From Poet Harriet Shenkman, "Rio Uncle"
 Harriet Shenkman
Rio Uncle Sugar Loaf rose above the sea, San Cristo stretching his arms to bless the city at dusk. My uncle escaped to Rio, hid out in Copacabana, disguised as a poet, wanted for killing a raiding Cossack with a rock. He wore a white suit, spectator shoes, a handkerchief in his breast pocket. Married a woman who threw a plate of feijoada across the table at him. Came to Brooklyn, left pee on our toilet seat, brought me a doll with blinking eyelids. I looked into her trusting eyes, watched her lashes close over lacquered cheeks, lulled her to sleep as a mother would. Uncle died an undecorated hero, an unread poet, unloved by a woman, his only triumphs, the dead Cossack and my doll with blinking eyelids. Read the poetry of Harriet Shenkman Read a profile of Harriet Shenkman We Welcome Poet Shan Ellis To VerseWrights
 Shan Ellis
When nights cool Dying day in grey light hued sky on bruised lips, enlightened by a flicker- finger traced around lines of laughter. Pause, anticipation of steady breath, in moment post-heat, where words are void but silence sings vividly sending shivers down supine spine. Darkness undresses, gets into bed warming buried bones, languidly the lips brush, explore, rekindle a phoenix flame in these ashen nights, that grew so cold. Shan Ellis is a freelance journalist, mother, and writer working in the East of England, currently for the Eastern Daily Press and Norwich evening news. A published author and poet, she is passionate about creativity, positive parenting, politics and real ale. She is a proud contributor to www.autismdailynewscast.com and maintains three online blogs, including Musings and Smatterings at www.repressedsoul.wordpress.com."Poems," she states,"are an occasional adventure, like making marmalade…" Read. A Villanelle from Poet Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
 Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
Villanelle: Within These Hands ☊ Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands Cautious, we walked upon this place Faint beats this heart within these hands To touch foot upon sacred lands Was nothing short of seeing grace Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands Blindly, we feel the flowered strands Tears, down their petals pure, did trace Faint beats this heart within these hands Blackness wrapped Life with deadly bands Nature’s breath, Death came to replace Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands Life lost from shore to hinterlands Destruction reigned Life’s haunted space Faint beats this heart within these hands The poets sung out their demands! The web undid the interlace Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands Screaming voices shout reprimands To speak, ruins what we can’t replace… Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands Faint beats this heart within these hands. Listen to the poet read this poem Read the poetry of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Read a profile of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer "Asperger," A New Poem From Leslie Philibert
 Leslie Philibert
Asperger an island full of shapes patterns of bricks and numbers and the thin voice of a bird lost on a strange planet; so start again and disregard all the faces that bend under order, just watch your own dancing hands, listen to your own stolen voice, you are deep in your own sense, underground until the world implodes, a puzzle flying, the lines crossed; a broken window full of stars. Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert Read a profile of Leslie Philibert jacob erin-cilberto's "Reality Show"
 jacob erin-cilberto
Reality Show you taught me how to tragedy--- i learned that spontaneous storms and unexpected death of hearts preempt love as the screen of feelings becomes enveloped in nothingness and those trees left lying in the back yard of our dreams are the uprooted causes of the stripped bark of existence that leaves us vulnerable to that which shows up on no radar screen but funnels itself deep within you taught me how to tragedy and now i am getting so good at it i feel like Thor in a room full of thunder clapping at his misfortunes... Read the poetry of jacob-erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto From Carl Sharpe, "grief, like children"
 Carl Sharpe
grief, like children ☊ sorrows tap-tap on the window glass when shadows cool the autumn dusk I have closed the night. you may not come in so it is with them--persistent and gentle and used to getting their way, like a child with sad face who taps on your knee. read, look away, tell him later, later, but the rhythm and the chant say now and you off-to-bed him in the darkened room and he does not sleep, and you do not sleep, for you have succumbed, let memory in and you do not sleep, and cannot sleep again Hear this poem read aloud Read the poetry of Carl Sharpe Read a profile of Carl Sharpe The Latest Poem From Danielle Favorite
 Danielle Favorite
a sexual discovery I fractured the moon and drank its secret milk the night I first saw my naked self in my mother's full-length mirror: pale and dark-eyed, whispered light, white pinpoint pupil, tethered and star-bright. Ribs are for counting, a spine for arching and lips for peeling my name from your tongue. Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite Read a profile of Danielle Favorite New On VerseWrights, Poet Roseville Nidea
 Roseville Nidea
Absurdity Foolish I was, to have Looked in the mirror of your soul Dove into your core Swayed into your sweet song Foolish I was, to have Made myself a crystalline Let you conquer my domain Allowed you to marry my mind Now, all that foolishness All that absurdity of mine Are bringing me back on the brink On the brink of endless darkness Foolish I was, to have Once more believed In Odysseus and Penelope I forgot to remember That love -- Love seldom stays. Roseville Nidea, is an aspiring poet from the Philippines who works as a content article writer. Her professional articles are published on different major websites under the company name of her client. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies published in Canada and in USA, including On The Words of Love (2012), Reflections on Blue Planet, I - IV (2012), Angels Cried (2013), A Haiku Treasury (2013), The Squire, Vol. 3: Seasons Anthology, and In Our Own Words (2013). Creating an internal and external balance between rationality and sensibility, she states, often leads her to seek the refuge of her notebook and pen. Read. From Beth Winter: A "Fantasy in Ballad Measure"
 Beth Winter
Portal More distant than the timber tall, beyond the ancient elms, examine near each garden wall to spy the hidden realms. Engraved in mossy common stone whose seams defy the wind, a score once set by wizened crone marks where dimensions bend. When gloam engulfs the waning light, when Luna hides his eyes, when great Orion guards the night in clearest star-flush skies, an eastern breeze might stir the glade, the rune might shimmer-shine as powers secret are conveyed when elements align. The stonework might dissolve to air, the bonds may melt to mists, then gently absent of fanfare a windowed world persists. For magic hides this elven land as soil and sea recede with wonders few observe firsthand where solace is decreed. Should fortune lead you to this dell and factors fit to place, let dusk invoke its artful spell then bask in elven grace. Read the poetry of Beth Winter Read a profile of Beth Winter Michele Shaw's Latest: "Drift"
 Michele Shaw
Drift you’re a thousand little pieces I only asked for one a speck for my pocket the sun hidden in my hand but each day another piece disappears evaporates before my eyes cell by cell, I see it I blink and lose more it is slow torture of the worst kind the silence so deep and sharp and unbearable I’m helpless and inadequate the weight of my pocket nearly topples me as I flip it inside out knowing its emptiness pulls me down futile grabs choke my strength they siphon my love they leave me breathless watching the last bits of you drift Read the poetry of Michele Shaw Read a profile of Michele Shaw |
A "Love Poem" from Poet Mark MacDonald
 Mark MacDonald
Your Grandfather's Love Song Some less than you expected in your blush when you read Rossetti and Sidney each day hunkered in the orange and brown afghan that you took from your grandmother’s parlor-- without your mother’s permission—the night that frail and cherubic Nana passed away. Nor even the random and frolicsome handfuls of wildflowers Adam, your very first beau, would gather along the roadside and deliver to you wrapped in last Friday’s newspaper, together with coffee and Danish, while you lingered in bed with the symphonies of love on Sunday afternoons wrapped in the sheets of April. Nothing so comforting nor quite so capricious as these from my hands my Beloved—not the faded wool of past Thanksgiving dinners, nor the flitting bird of Spring and his fingers quick with daisies, bindweed and larkspur from me. But only the pile of coal I shoveled into the furnace this morning; this envelope of dollars and coins so that Pat might have her shoes—this small sweet cup of tea for you. Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald Poet Peter Wilkin Now on VerseWrights
 Peter Wilkin
Athanasia It was billed as a memorial. We would all make quiches and puddings, bring bottles of fine wines and photographs of her when she was younger. There would be poems to celebrate her existence and to express our sadness. In between we would gaze out of her drawing room window at green hills, canal boats and horses cantering in fields of buttercups. And in the gaps between betweens we would talk of work, holidays, even relate anecdotes unconnected to her in any familiar way. Some of us would shed tears, others would hold them back for fear of being seen. All of us would raise a glass to her beauty and vow that we would do this again, perhaps towards the year’s end. We did all of these things and much more … but what we really wanted and expected if we’re honest was to see her smiling softly as she slowly descended those stairs. Peter Wilkin is a retired psychotherapist living in Deepest West Yorkshire. He has had a number of poems published in various anthologies and his poem ‘Cinders’ won the 2012 M R Mathias Poetry Contest. He is a member of the Grass Roots Poetry Group, whose anthology Petrichor Rising has just been published by Aquillrelle. He is also co-author of Briannca and the Crystal Dragons, a children’s fantasy novel published by Chiaroscuro books earlier this year. Read. From Poet Jorge Davis: "The Obstructionist"
 Jorge Davis
The Obstructionist I sat there holding, and rubbing my larynx, trying perhaps to find a word in there. But something shut me down. And the word lay trapped. And they began to pile up. All the while this extraordinary woman kept looking at me; kicking the table leg with her biker boots (and I know this because I have a pair just like them: sexy.) And the vibrations originating from those leather boots only exacerbated my condition. And she grew frustrated, and left; left me there, rubbing my larynx and wondering what a doctor would say: You will need immediate surgery; to remove that middle finger lodged in your throat, by the ex Read the poetry of Jorge Davis Read a profile of Jorge Davis A Poem From Julie Brooks Barbour
 Julie Brooks Barbour
The Bend and Rise of Streets The white inside wing of a gull gave brightness to the gray street this morning, fluttering between parked cars as I passed then the sudden rising up, the pivotal turn away from me. Wings open, dark eyes between that wingspan, the flight so certain and fluid I lost direction. I stuttered and slowed the car and shook off following, let memory be my compass in this bend and rise of streets. On this road, two stop signs then a right turn at the flashing signal. Up the steep hill. Another right at the gravel road. I could remember street names but my body recalls more easily the upward slope of a hill or the bend within a curved road. I lean and turn, a gull heading north for the summer. A car and a current. A path and a migratory pattern. Goldenrod and pine trees blur into gray bridges and roads. Read the poetry of Julie Brooks Barbour Read a profile of Julie Brooks Barbour A New Poem From E. Michael Desilets
 E. Michael Desilets
When we returned Mary Carton 45 “No One To Welcome Me Home” was on the turntable but the record player was unplugged and Peg was eight miles away in the Union ICU. We might have tossed it into that Sunshine Dairy crate with the Deans and the Bings and the Mitch Millers and somebody likely bought it for a quarter at the yard sale. Whatever we did it ended up gone. Right now it seems we kept all the wrong things. Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets "Invisibility," From Foster Cameron Hunter
 Foster Cameron Hunter
Invisibility Encased behind a flesh mask I face you, funneled into an adobe figurine. I peer through tinted windows above full, sculpted lips. I’m the puppeteer inside. You can’t see me. Read the poetry of Foster Cameron Hunter Read a profile of Foster Cameron Hunter Poet Ana Caballero Now On VerseWrights
 Ana Caballero
Overdue Love Letter Minus the saliva on paper The hesitant comma Barely smeared Impatient still Signed and dated Sealed I offer every swerve Soft wrist and stiff neck Dear, This is my wet black ink Ana Caballero was raised in Bogotá, Colombia, but has also lived in Boston, New York and especially Miami, where she met her future husband. They are now living back in Bogotá with son Lorenzo. She maintains a blog at www.thedrugstorenotebook.co where she posts her poetry and thoughts on books "as though it were my job." This is Ana's first time publishing her work. Read. We Welcome Poet Christopher Sanderson to VerseWrights
 Christopher Sanderson
Maitreya Droplets Of water On the leaves Of trees The rains Have been and gone The pool’s surface Is still Listen To the unhappy hounds Listen To the distant traffic Listen To the fish jumping Listen To the birdsong Look Towards the temple Look Through the gaps Between the trees Look At the swaying branches As you sit still The regimentation Is all mine Nature gives me the tree Faultlessly and at random Feel the gentle breath Hear the trickling water Wait, for the time To share conversation Taste the fruit tea Taste the scone With jam With maple syrup Turn the pages Of the beautiful book Pay for entrance, and Meditation CD Ask about Maitreya’s latest project Did he visit Japan During last winter Stop by his crystal garden Spend a few moments On a wooden bench With feet, on the floor Christopher Sanderson (a.k.a. coastmoor) graduated with a MA in Creative Writing from Nottingham Trent University in 2006. Since that time he has facilitated creative writing workshops in Louth and Lincoln. The workshops have created the need to continuously read poetry, and prose. He writes that, "Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by." His poetry swings between sadness and joy, between love and loss, between portraits and landscapes, between form and freedom and between beauty and beauty. At his Blogspot site you can find Christopher's poem a day, and links to his other sites. Read. Ray Sharp Gives us "hope"
 Ray Sharp
hope
the difference is in your eyes beholder – i’m thinking of the astronomer again and how lives are pulled by forces and about what turns while I listen to sad songs from other planets and the storm blunderbussing around these walls that shelter us from too crazy – there are stars beyond this snowy world and your mask is a thing with feathers too Read the poetry of Ray Sharp Read a profile of Ray Sharp |
