Archive #36
June, 2016
Christina Strigas With A Love
|
Christina Strigas
|
Don't Read Me With one look You will need many One for my eyes One for my lips One from my legs One for my ass One for my thighs One for my naked hips As your warm hands slide Up and down my curvy back And wait for me More than five seconds More than a drag of a cigarette Longer than the stop at the red light Turn your car around And find my keys Lost in the corners of my empty pockets When the song ends its riff Still no one can understand Show me how Tell me now What makes a good man good And a bad man an asshole Or both Keep on washing the dishes While I swell. Read the poetry of Christina Strigas Read a profile of Christine Strigas |
Gene R. Turchin
|
Gene R. Turchin's Tree: Metaphor And Conceit |
Ragged Tree
The light hums and crackles a counterpoint
Around the quietness of midday
In electric yellow,
As you stand to be witnessed,
Innocently unashamed.
With no apologies offered
For your dress:
I am, you seem to say.
Bone white bark stretched.
Tightly covers
Sinews made strong by years
Of bearing greenery.
Seems to me, to ripple and pulse
Like blood fed muscle
Beneath your skin.
Were you a dancer
In another life?
I thought I saw your form,
In the ballet.
The track print of brushes
Swirls through the heavens in muted blue.
A painted backdrop that plays
With a silence that is like
Basso booming kettle drums.
High, arcing hammers beat air
With raging arms.
Staged in front of you
Tiny winged things dance and twirl
Like notes in the warm September air.
And in the clearing
The yellow grass, a rabble audience
At your knees.
I am, you seem to say.
Though your roots be dry
And your branched crack and creak.
An opus or symphony, pianissimo,
Bowed by the wind
Or whispered from the breeze.
In this clearing quiet,
Quotes
I am.
The light hums and crackles a counterpoint
Around the quietness of midday
In electric yellow,
As you stand to be witnessed,
Innocently unashamed.
With no apologies offered
For your dress:
I am, you seem to say.
Bone white bark stretched.
Tightly covers
Sinews made strong by years
Of bearing greenery.
Seems to me, to ripple and pulse
Like blood fed muscle
Beneath your skin.
Were you a dancer
In another life?
I thought I saw your form,
In the ballet.
The track print of brushes
Swirls through the heavens in muted blue.
A painted backdrop that plays
With a silence that is like
Basso booming kettle drums.
High, arcing hammers beat air
With raging arms.
Staged in front of you
Tiny winged things dance and twirl
Like notes in the warm September air.
And in the clearing
The yellow grass, a rabble audience
At your knees.
I am, you seem to say.
Though your roots be dry
And your branched crack and creak.
An opus or symphony, pianissimo,
Bowed by the wind
Or whispered from the breeze.
In this clearing quiet,
Quotes
I am.
Janet Aalfs: Stunning Family Moments,
And The Aftermath
Janet Aalfs
|
Queer When my mother at the table noted the roast tasted queer, I watched my father stare as if to freeze the air that sizzled like spit on an iron skillet and disappeared. No one saw me gone. Every nerve and current spoke invisibly true. Like the slap he had meant to stop a boy from kissing me, or worse, the girl he did not see, silent lips to mine. I trusted every feeling. My ground. My spine. And learned the meaning of mercy then – love blessed that word my choking parents swallowed to live. And pierced my heart. And pushed me out. Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs Read a profile of Janet Aalfs |
L.L. Barkat, Priestess, Ponders
Culinary Questions
L.L. Barkat
|
Mused Let's say a person took words at a table. Let's say I was his priestess, Henkel in hand (the weighty one with the silver vein down its back). Would it need to be chanterelles every morning, and the expert chive scattered just so... would he require veal in the evening (though veal makes me weep)... would he settle for the common wineberry in June, or would I need to import the lingon (I don't even know their season)... would he prefer his wine dry, or sweet (I drink sweet alone). And after the last draught was taken, the last ridiculous little chive on a silver tine, would he linger for a song? Read the poetry of L.L. Barkat Read a profile of L.L. Barkat |
Peter V. Dugan
|
Peter V. Dugan Details A Flood's Aftermath
|
The Wake of the Flood
Boats from marinas miles away
washed across highways, carried
down Reynolds Channel, swept up
Mill River and Swift Creek
beached on fairways and bunkers
of Bay Park Golf Course.
Further up river at East Rockaway High School,
the newly renovated auditorium
lies in ruins, all seats submerged
except those in the balcony.
The gymnasium floor, its wood
warped, resembles ocean waves,
complete with fish and crabs.
Cars and trucks are immobile,
askew in parking lots and on lawns.
Sink holes erode streets;
branches and uprooted trees block roads,
crush cars and lean on homes.
Television, telephone, internet cable
and power lines torn down,
communication and information cut off
or extremely limited.
Up river and up the road
a woman finds her undamaged hot tub,
still filled with water, standing alone
in the center of Lister Ball Field.
At night total darkness envelopes
the neighborhood, save for the flashlights
and lanterns inside occupied houses.
The smell of low tide, sewerage,
and burnt gas and oil permeates the air.
The sound of autumn crickets drowned out
by the drone of generators.
The next day, piles of carpet, furniture,
and other remnants and wreckage
form mounds in driveways and on front lawns.
Someone plants the American Flag atop one.
Curbside I find a child's index card
from school, labeled #10 and it reads:
"Fearing death for himself and the rest of the men,
they decide to build boats and float them down
the Mississippi in hope of finding a Spanish settlement."
Read the poetry of Peter V. Dugan
Read a profile of Peter V. Dugan
Boats from marinas miles away
washed across highways, carried
down Reynolds Channel, swept up
Mill River and Swift Creek
beached on fairways and bunkers
of Bay Park Golf Course.
Further up river at East Rockaway High School,
the newly renovated auditorium
lies in ruins, all seats submerged
except those in the balcony.
The gymnasium floor, its wood
warped, resembles ocean waves,
complete with fish and crabs.
Cars and trucks are immobile,
askew in parking lots and on lawns.
Sink holes erode streets;
branches and uprooted trees block roads,
crush cars and lean on homes.
Television, telephone, internet cable
and power lines torn down,
communication and information cut off
or extremely limited.
Up river and up the road
a woman finds her undamaged hot tub,
still filled with water, standing alone
in the center of Lister Ball Field.
At night total darkness envelopes
the neighborhood, save for the flashlights
and lanterns inside occupied houses.
The smell of low tide, sewerage,
and burnt gas and oil permeates the air.
The sound of autumn crickets drowned out
by the drone of generators.
The next day, piles of carpet, furniture,
and other remnants and wreckage
form mounds in driveways and on front lawns.
Someone plants the American Flag atop one.
Curbside I find a child's index card
from school, labeled #10 and it reads:
"Fearing death for himself and the rest of the men,
they decide to build boats and float them down
the Mississippi in hope of finding a Spanish settlement."
Read the poetry of Peter V. Dugan
Read a profile of Peter V. Dugan
Witty Fay
|
Witty Fay Writes About The
|
I, linguistic animal
There is this frigid weather inside my bones.
As I measure my coldness in the marrow of the day,
The blue of the ink and the silver of the words,
Coil around my shoulders to warm the arms that carry them.
And I bid their personal music to speak to you
And my frames to smolder quietly, against the ice.
So I say: Occupy the words!
Squeeze your all into them and own their every fiber
Till they borrow your skin and you clothe theirs.
This silent speaking of mine is a risk
I always fail to see in the way you take it,
Building a mighty crimson architecture
Inside a half peeled pomegranate of Persia
For words of you are blood builders
Of such cold days of mine.
Read the poetry of Witty Fay
Read a profile of Witty Fay
There is this frigid weather inside my bones.
As I measure my coldness in the marrow of the day,
The blue of the ink and the silver of the words,
Coil around my shoulders to warm the arms that carry them.
And I bid their personal music to speak to you
And my frames to smolder quietly, against the ice.
So I say: Occupy the words!
Squeeze your all into them and own their every fiber
Till they borrow your skin and you clothe theirs.
This silent speaking of mine is a risk
I always fail to see in the way you take it,
Building a mighty crimson architecture
Inside a half peeled pomegranate of Persia
For words of you are blood builders
Of such cold days of mine.
Read the poetry of Witty Fay
Read a profile of Witty Fay
Edjo Frank Considers His Own Mortality
Edjo Frank
|
Imagine the clock of life counts back encouraging to imagine the world without me in the center I realize the vulnerability of my home called body since major repair is no longer an option kaleidoscopes of impressions come and go make me laugh strong helpless an appointment without date time or place I encounter a stranger without a face without a name yes I know my destination I wonder how it feels under a stone square of yew hedges surrounded by trees reciting my name my departure fixed long ago announced by those who know the direction and took away my worries I know you bring flowers I do not see play music I cannot enjoy speak words I will not hear but I love it all forever Read the poetry of Edjo Frank Read a profile of Edjo Frank |
John Grey And How The Awkward Can Become...Comfortable
John Grey
|
Reunion
We meet up again in an east side cafe after ten years - I won't say ten long years – our words of greeting match shock against curiosity, send old angers into battle with the heavenly tenor of current situations - no wonder there's mumbling and stuttering and some particular riffs on the unspoken: would you like some coffee with my unanswered questions? how about a Danish, to go with real or imagined hurts? eventually, we laugh together, catch up on a decade, end up feeling better for the encounter – accidental reunions are all the rage so I've heard - funny but I used to think that rage was all the rage. Read the poetry of John Grey Read a profile of John Grey |
Tracey Gunne
|
Tracey Gunne Finds A Sad,
|
the blue cedars we ignored
you stumbled dark onto the arbitrary surface
of my heart's grave. deep in the woods buried.
all the unloved and brittle bones.
i assumed forever meant a willingness to betray
the necessary. no longer steady in the black and white.
submerged beneath the divided shelter
of your hands. the half moon frostbitten tips
of spring form bruises out of love. but never in.
summer's lust leaves us barren
with branches tense. the rough bark undressed and
ready for the sensation of a single breath. the autumn
wind a reminder. a somewhat forgiving truth
in this never ever land. love is fiercer than
two souls combined. the blue cedars we ignored
fondly confirm a lack thereof. love is the downward
spiral of a sky falling through our seasonal essence.
our infinite and intimate core.
where winter left us cold, waiting.
Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne
Read a profile of Tracey Gunne
you stumbled dark onto the arbitrary surface
of my heart's grave. deep in the woods buried.
all the unloved and brittle bones.
i assumed forever meant a willingness to betray
the necessary. no longer steady in the black and white.
submerged beneath the divided shelter
of your hands. the half moon frostbitten tips
of spring form bruises out of love. but never in.
summer's lust leaves us barren
with branches tense. the rough bark undressed and
ready for the sensation of a single breath. the autumn
wind a reminder. a somewhat forgiving truth
in this never ever land. love is fiercer than
two souls combined. the blue cedars we ignored
fondly confirm a lack thereof. love is the downward
spiral of a sky falling through our seasonal essence.
our infinite and intimate core.
where winter left us cold, waiting.
Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne
Read a profile of Tracey Gunne
James Croal Jackson: Glue And
Human Mortality
James Croal Jackson
Lance's Lament
as we gathered to mourn
the puppy struck by a car
outside of the bank,
i was reminded of glue:
how it encrusts fingers; if
it could seep through skin
it would sleep in your lungs
& heart & hasten the path
to the common rest
they couldn't have fastened
the coffin with glue– too cruel,
they said–
if your hand could even summon
the will to move
a square, red magnet fastens
your snow origami valentines forever
to green construction paper, tiny prayers
bottled
i hope there is another side, even when i open
the door for orange juice, cool breath of air
within, glass, it breathes, infested
with my own fingerprints, tartness
prior to the swallow
& acceptance– for as long as i am,
you are, too
Read the poetry of James Croal Jackson
Read a profile of James Croal Jackson
Wayne F Burke
|
Wayne F. Burke's Paean To Muhammad Ali |
Muhammad Ali: Dead at 74
boxer with a knife-sharp mind; his decency
shone through, through the cameras he sat
or stood in front of, framed in the picture of
our times: his metamorphoses from caterpillar
to butterfly part of the history of the 21st century.
He's in every family's tree; real as Nixon and
Ho Chi Minh and Malcolm X and Martin King;
his victories "shook up the world," his defeats
saddened all who favored brains over brawn,
wit over witlessness, poetry over the prosaic;
he brought class to a de-classed sport; brought
light and laughter to those trapped in dark places;
brought good-nature to an ill-nature world;
he was the King, like Elvis, of his domain, and
glad I am to have lived during this King's reign.
Read the poetry of Wayne F Burke
Read a profile of Wayne F Burke
boxer with a knife-sharp mind; his decency
shone through, through the cameras he sat
or stood in front of, framed in the picture of
our times: his metamorphoses from caterpillar
to butterfly part of the history of the 21st century.
He's in every family's tree; real as Nixon and
Ho Chi Minh and Malcolm X and Martin King;
his victories "shook up the world," his defeats
saddened all who favored brains over brawn,
wit over witlessness, poetry over the prosaic;
he brought class to a de-classed sport; brought
light and laughter to those trapped in dark places;
brought good-nature to an ill-nature world;
he was the King, like Elvis, of his domain, and
glad I am to have lived during this King's reign.
Read the poetry of Wayne F Burke
Read a profile of Wayne F Burke
Claire Scott
|
Claire Scott And A Travel Challenge To Assuage Grief |
Strange World
After he died I went to Morocco, land of Paul Bowles
mysterious, ominous, unfamiliar
my well meaning friends were aghast
you can’t go by yourself
you don’t speak the language
you will get lost or sick or lonely
and they were right. I landed alone in a country of
strange food and scenery, strange sounds,
peculiar prayers and exotic smells
exactly the world I needed
and I did get sick and sicker
and I did get lost again and again
wandering crooked streets that looped
and looped through dark alleys
I saw bustling souqs with hills of spices,
silver hands of Fatima, chess sets made of
cedar wood, tagines and garden pots,
carpets dyed in henna, indigo, saffron
the call to prayer of meuzzins chanting
the language of my bones
my grief thirsty for strange water
in a strange world that would
be mine for the rest of my life.
Read the poetry of Claire Scott
Read a profile of Claire Scott
After he died I went to Morocco, land of Paul Bowles
mysterious, ominous, unfamiliar
my well meaning friends were aghast
you can’t go by yourself
you don’t speak the language
you will get lost or sick or lonely
and they were right. I landed alone in a country of
strange food and scenery, strange sounds,
peculiar prayers and exotic smells
exactly the world I needed
and I did get sick and sicker
and I did get lost again and again
wandering crooked streets that looped
and looped through dark alleys
I saw bustling souqs with hills of spices,
silver hands of Fatima, chess sets made of
cedar wood, tagines and garden pots,
carpets dyed in henna, indigo, saffron
the call to prayer of meuzzins chanting
the language of my bones
my grief thirsty for strange water
in a strange world that would
be mine for the rest of my life.
Read the poetry of Claire Scott
Read a profile of Claire Scott
Jen Stein
|
VerseWrights Extends A Warm Welcome To Poet Jen Stein |
Miss Maude Hires an Assistant
She lines them up in front of her, six
women, each wearing their best clothes.
One woman is wearing pearls and a
pink sweater set. Maude admires
her dark hair, parted to the side,
cut jagged and uneven, but oh
how it shines like brown butter.
Another is wearing heels so high
Maude is afraid she may trip and fall
flattening the pansies in the pots
set on the tables inside. Maude asks
questions – why do you want to work
here at Hallelujah! Hotdish! and where
have you worked before? What do you
want of this job? What do you dream
when you close your eyes – do you see
signs in the clouds? Have you ever caught
yourself staring into the oven and you
imagine yourself there, home there, hot
but not burning? Do you know when you
really, truly learned your name? The women
laugh, nervous laughter, save for the one
with the jagged hair and the quick-bit nails.
She tells Maude she learned her name when
she came home and found all the chickens
and the ducks and the dog dead, and they
were laid out like they were constellations
and she knew then that her ex-husband was
who did it because she’d left him for another man.
Then she knew, she knew her name wasn’t Cathy
anymore, it was Cassiopeia, Cassie, and she cut
her own hair and she never saw him again.
Maude accepts this as gospel and dismisses
the other women. She offers Cassie the job
and a mint julep. They drink sisterhood
through green straws. They drown in it.
Read the poetry of Jen Stein
Read a profile of Jen Stein
She lines them up in front of her, six
women, each wearing their best clothes.
One woman is wearing pearls and a
pink sweater set. Maude admires
her dark hair, parted to the side,
cut jagged and uneven, but oh
how it shines like brown butter.
Another is wearing heels so high
Maude is afraid she may trip and fall
flattening the pansies in the pots
set on the tables inside. Maude asks
questions – why do you want to work
here at Hallelujah! Hotdish! and where
have you worked before? What do you
want of this job? What do you dream
when you close your eyes – do you see
signs in the clouds? Have you ever caught
yourself staring into the oven and you
imagine yourself there, home there, hot
but not burning? Do you know when you
really, truly learned your name? The women
laugh, nervous laughter, save for the one
with the jagged hair and the quick-bit nails.
She tells Maude she learned her name when
she came home and found all the chickens
and the ducks and the dog dead, and they
were laid out like they were constellations
and she knew then that her ex-husband was
who did it because she’d left him for another man.
Then she knew, she knew her name wasn’t Cathy
anymore, it was Cassiopeia, Cassie, and she cut
her own hair and she never saw him again.
Maude accepts this as gospel and dismisses
the other women. She offers Cassie the job
and a mint julep. They drink sisterhood
through green straws. They drown in it.
Read the poetry of Jen Stein
Read a profile of Jen Stein
Collin Kelley
|
Collin Kelley Grieves Over A Life With Stark Realism |
Atonement ☊
I am sitting in a London cinema watching Vanessa Redgrave make amends for a life of deceit, to a soundtrack of rushing water I believe subliminal, to drive home melancholy, but when silhouetted heads turn in search, I realize it is real. It is raining hard outside, echoing behind the screen, and suddenly your death comes rushing back to me, Christopher, who I have not mourned.
Fifteen years ago we watched Vanessa give away Howards End, thrilled at elegant despair and handwringing, the way the rain never looked ugly there, was always just enough and never too much. When our sweaty young palms found each other’s in the dark, our dreams came in fast whispers, the promise that we would go to London one day.
I am here now, Christopher, and I feel you near. I am writing these words for you in Leicester Square, the English rain cold and perfect on my skin, yet the ink does not smear. You will not let me forget so easily, although I have tried to make you a stranger, a casualty of your own vices.
My fear is that I passed you on the street, when you were homeless and addicted, unrecognizable ghetto scarecrow, invisible and all the same, part of the city landscape. Maybe you were behind the gas station in a cold sweat, shooting meth to forget the HIV shame. Swallowed up in pride.
Your death is a voice mail, left by another with a phone number. The somber tone is unmistakable, a hush earmarked for the dead. Four days gone – long enough to have shaken off flesh gravity – I expect your ghost to rattle the unearthly chains of your discontent. Even when I skip the memorial, numb on the couch as twilight approaches, picking the memory of you like a scab, I realize that you are not so much a wound, but a scar that will never fade.
But today, you come back as the sound of rain; fill me up like a bucket until I brim. Not a dry eye in the house, anyway. So clever, you, subtle and un-paranormal. I mourn you with celluloid, Christopher, with dark rooms where stories unfurl, with rushing water, with a city that pulls me near and pushes me away, with clocks that always know the score.
I am sitting in a London cinema watching Vanessa Redgrave make amends for a life of deceit, to a soundtrack of rushing water I believe subliminal, to drive home melancholy, but when silhouetted heads turn in search, I realize it is real. It is raining hard outside, echoing behind the screen, and suddenly your death comes rushing back to me, Christopher, who I have not mourned.
Fifteen years ago we watched Vanessa give away Howards End, thrilled at elegant despair and handwringing, the way the rain never looked ugly there, was always just enough and never too much. When our sweaty young palms found each other’s in the dark, our dreams came in fast whispers, the promise that we would go to London one day.
I am here now, Christopher, and I feel you near. I am writing these words for you in Leicester Square, the English rain cold and perfect on my skin, yet the ink does not smear. You will not let me forget so easily, although I have tried to make you a stranger, a casualty of your own vices.
My fear is that I passed you on the street, when you were homeless and addicted, unrecognizable ghetto scarecrow, invisible and all the same, part of the city landscape. Maybe you were behind the gas station in a cold sweat, shooting meth to forget the HIV shame. Swallowed up in pride.
Your death is a voice mail, left by another with a phone number. The somber tone is unmistakable, a hush earmarked for the dead. Four days gone – long enough to have shaken off flesh gravity – I expect your ghost to rattle the unearthly chains of your discontent. Even when I skip the memorial, numb on the couch as twilight approaches, picking the memory of you like a scab, I realize that you are not so much a wound, but a scar that will never fade.
But today, you come back as the sound of rain; fill me up like a bucket until I brim. Not a dry eye in the house, anyway. So clever, you, subtle and un-paranormal. I mourn you with celluloid, Christopher, with dark rooms where stories unfurl, with rushing water, with a city that pulls me near and pushes me away, with clocks that always know the score.
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Collin Kelley
Read a profile of Collin Kelley
Read the poetry of Collin Kelley
Read a profile of Collin Kelley
Scott Thomas Outlar Brings His Unique
Brand Of Horror
Scott Thomas Outlar
|
One Night Pass ☊ She bled crimson lust with dragon breath when the fire came to wash my soul to hell and back with a one night pass to fever dream city as Satan moaned at every touch of flesh and hiss from fangs that poured ecstatic venom She laughed long and hard with eyes lit up as the sky wept down in bullet point rain straight to the vein with mercury overload singeing the chaos of a symphony choir in love with the siren that remains a liar but still gets the meal in the end |
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Scott Thomas Outlar
Read a profile of Scott Thomas Outlar
Read the poetry of Scott Thomas Outlar
Read a profile of Scott Thomas Outlar
Doc Burkard
|
Doc Burkard And Desperation In America's Rust Belt |
On Earth,
a kid in Detroit learns the easiest things to remove from
a car.
These new ones are really just computers and imported
plastic,
his cousin tells him as they lift a CD deck from a Pontiac
downriver, in the shadow of an abandoned factory, sharing a forty of Bud Light.
A Milwaukee woman fills up her brother's van,
with one window missing, moving to Des Moines, in the
winter,
her fragile hands exposed, cracking from the dry cold and
and edges from the boxes filled with faded clothes.
In this rust belt, we're dead, and the color of dirt,
all we can do is shake our fists, beat the sidewalk,
until we fall asleep on the street when our bottles are
done,
and the rats check our pockets for five dollar bills.
It's one of the mildest winters of memory.
This wind a rusted knife, wet and the temperature of lies.
In Saint Paul, at the liquor store on Christmas Eve, I buy
as much
as I can hold and get ready for another year.
Read the poetry of Doc Burkard
Read a profile of Doc Burkard
a kid in Detroit learns the easiest things to remove from
a car.
These new ones are really just computers and imported
plastic,
his cousin tells him as they lift a CD deck from a Pontiac
downriver, in the shadow of an abandoned factory, sharing a forty of Bud Light.
A Milwaukee woman fills up her brother's van,
with one window missing, moving to Des Moines, in the
winter,
her fragile hands exposed, cracking from the dry cold and
and edges from the boxes filled with faded clothes.
In this rust belt, we're dead, and the color of dirt,
all we can do is shake our fists, beat the sidewalk,
until we fall asleep on the street when our bottles are
done,
and the rats check our pockets for five dollar bills.
It's one of the mildest winters of memory.
This wind a rusted knife, wet and the temperature of lies.
In Saint Paul, at the liquor store on Christmas Eve, I buy
as much
as I can hold and get ready for another year.
Read the poetry of Doc Burkard
Read a profile of Doc Burkard
E. Michael Desilets
|
E. Michael Desilets With A Vestige Of The Not So Long Ago |
Old Iron
Typewriters at yard sales squat in relief
against toasters and tireless bicycles, always
ready to tell you something.
Even gibberish delays the eyes, precipitates
a cursory search for meaning, a disgruntled
delight in mere literacy. One Royal veteran,
rusting with iron pride, clamps in its guts
a sheet of stationery from the defunct
New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad Company.
Someone–Years ago? Yesterday?–X’ed out the names of
the trustees,
who were X’ed out themselves the previous century. The
old machine
is simply too inexpensive to believe.
And much too cheap to buy, one more chunk
of the unnecessary. Literal junk. Typewriters
at yard sales.
Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets
Typewriters at yard sales squat in relief
against toasters and tireless bicycles, always
ready to tell you something.
Even gibberish delays the eyes, precipitates
a cursory search for meaning, a disgruntled
delight in mere literacy. One Royal veteran,
rusting with iron pride, clamps in its guts
a sheet of stationery from the defunct
New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad Company.
Someone–Years ago? Yesterday?–X’ed out the names of
the trustees,
who were X’ed out themselves the previous century. The
old machine
is simply too inexpensive to believe.
And much too cheap to buy, one more chunk
of the unnecessary. Literal junk. Typewriters
at yard sales.
Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets
Lisa Folkmire Considers The Firmament
From Terra Firma
Lisa Folkmire
|
To Heaven I. In Grandma’s drive you pointed up and counted: one, two, three. There’s the belt. The great Betelgeuse. Somber Rigel. II. Follow the handle down to the brightest star there is the North. But I couldn’t see the gourd. I felt for the moss on the trees instead. III. We always tried to chase the Northern lights only to imagine them between wakings. IV. O, Cassieopea, Queen of the Night. I wanted your beauty most of all. V. Star-gazers of the summer catching fireflies between palms. We never cared how our universe flurried amongst us Or how we could capture it between our fingers. Read the poetry of Lisa Folkmire Read a profile of Lisa Folkmire |
Katherine Gallagher's Poem Leaves Us
With A Final, Edgy Metaphor
Katherine Gallagher
|
Leaving we watched seasons seep into our skins saw the seasons fail fought them now we find ourselves packing once more choosing a direction the sky weightless tracks ribboning before our eyes the cart piled ready we scratch final messages wedge ourselves on board elbows jarring our sides suddenly the driver jerking the reins in hard as the load tilts and crockery starts to break on itself Read the poetry of Katherine Gallagher Read a profile of Katherine Gallagher |
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes
Poet Suchoon Mo
Suchoon Mo
|
Hocus Pocus Mantra caucus ruckus iganoramus walrus chorus tremendus venus anus apparatus coitus hiatus confucius tungus phallus asparagus bogus virus suspicius typhus bacillus hippopotamus lupus tetanus serius hindus genius homoerectus plus minus calculus hocus pocus hilarius Read the poetry of Suchoon Mo Read a profile of Suchoon Mo |
Matthew Henningsen: A Passenger Hears A Prelude To History
Matthew Henningsen
|
Eaves-Dropping Two rows back on the Opposite end of a train Car that belches and roars Out a thick, bewildering Ash of pastes and particles You seem to over-hear- “Taney and James – they’re in On it they are in Cahoots. Conspiratorial You might say.” The steel train grinds-grinds- Grinds bolts and bars and Breaks down coal with a Hiss a loud-loud hiss- Of delight. “And a friend told me That a friend of his who Was there heard from a Man that Lincoln had said that He makes a chestnut Horse a horse Chestnut.” Your bolted-down seat Shakes from the pound-pound- Pound of pistons screeching Out steam that clings to The misty panes of pale Glass that you, buffeted and Blockaded, squint through and Through. “Like the roar-roar Of Chicago when Honest Abe’s Nomination came through.” Read the poetry of Matthew Henningsen Read a profile of Matthew Henningsen |
Amy Soricelli
|
Amy Soricelli Goes to the Beach, And Then Goes To The Beach |
We Missed the #68 to Orchard Beach and Went Home Instead (July, 1969)
Dusty tunnels in the afternoon
a kaleidoscope of dust -
you can squint your eyes to see the particles
streaming through the Venetian Blinds like a magic trick.
If you hold a pipe cleaner up to the window
and wave it like a sword you can
cartoon yourself back into your sandals;
escape the odd feeling of a bathing suit under your jeans.
The cats under the couch looking for the lost Spalding balls -
someone's mother calling from the window
screaming Spanish accents into the dirty Bronx air.
It's all you could do to get away from the sun
the sun -
streaky down on your neck
little pools of streaky sun.
Packed deep into ice -
lost sandwiches kicked down the street
like a failed math test.
Ice cream money singing loose change songs
in your sweaty pocket.
You can hide under the cushions/ find pennies there.
go outside go outside go outside.
Her voice trails along the lines of the wall
where we scraped our shoes kicking the boredom -
the sadness.
Everything is always the same here-
everyone hates us.
Blending into the wallpaper
we creep along the ceiling -
lost children
right under her nose.
why can't you go outside.
We shuffle through the boxes under the bed -
she hides things there
in between the dead shoes single socks.
Found a dollar folded like a swan.
He punches me sometimes hard on the arm
bam bam bam.
Same spot all the time
leaves a blue and green mark
round like a puddle.
Pulls my hair across the room
until i land smack in the middle of his nightmare.
go outside go outside go outside.
Motown music walks a tightrope
from the electric chord on the kitchen table its copper penny brother
steadying its arm
scratching out the angry move your hips music.
We all know i got no rhythm.
Soap bubbles tossed in the bathroom
buckets of water like a beach.
Make a beach from blankets
spread across the flat blue carpet in the bedroom.
Pails and shovels
and shells made from broken dolls without eyes.
No waves/ ocean sounds.
But it's a beach for today.
There's all this sand.
Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli
Read a profile of Amy Soricelli
Dusty tunnels in the afternoon
a kaleidoscope of dust -
you can squint your eyes to see the particles
streaming through the Venetian Blinds like a magic trick.
If you hold a pipe cleaner up to the window
and wave it like a sword you can
cartoon yourself back into your sandals;
escape the odd feeling of a bathing suit under your jeans.
The cats under the couch looking for the lost Spalding balls -
someone's mother calling from the window
screaming Spanish accents into the dirty Bronx air.
It's all you could do to get away from the sun
the sun -
streaky down on your neck
little pools of streaky sun.
Packed deep into ice -
lost sandwiches kicked down the street
like a failed math test.
Ice cream money singing loose change songs
in your sweaty pocket.
You can hide under the cushions/ find pennies there.
go outside go outside go outside.
Her voice trails along the lines of the wall
where we scraped our shoes kicking the boredom -
the sadness.
Everything is always the same here-
everyone hates us.
Blending into the wallpaper
we creep along the ceiling -
lost children
right under her nose.
why can't you go outside.
We shuffle through the boxes under the bed -
she hides things there
in between the dead shoes single socks.
Found a dollar folded like a swan.
He punches me sometimes hard on the arm
bam bam bam.
Same spot all the time
leaves a blue and green mark
round like a puddle.
Pulls my hair across the room
until i land smack in the middle of his nightmare.
go outside go outside go outside.
Motown music walks a tightrope
from the electric chord on the kitchen table its copper penny brother
steadying its arm
scratching out the angry move your hips music.
We all know i got no rhythm.
Soap bubbles tossed in the bathroom
buckets of water like a beach.
Make a beach from blankets
spread across the flat blue carpet in the bedroom.
Pails and shovels
and shells made from broken dolls without eyes.
No waves/ ocean sounds.
But it's a beach for today.
There's all this sand.
Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli
Read a profile of Amy Soricelli
Kim Talon
|
Kim Talon Returns With Two
|
10,000 Holes
10,000 nail holes weren’t enough
to hold the frames
that held the photos
to hide the crack you made
when you smashed the walls--
the walls you thought kept you out
when you forgot they kept you safe
another hole
10,001
so a frame might cover
another tentacle of the crack
racing from floor to ceiling
stretching out finger-like
plaster cast of a broken heart
Battered
You play music like a man possessed ...
you tell me this is the only time
you feel liberated and unfettered
from the banality of day to day
and I don’t feel slighted
because we all hanker for a soul’s pure freedom
You tell me the notes are demanding
and you, their instrument, must do their bidding
until the music stretches the ordinary
as tightly as you stretch the strings of your battered Gibson
until the notes become something else...
something you lay claim to
Read the poetry of Kim Talon
Read a profile of Kim Talon
10,000 nail holes weren’t enough
to hold the frames
that held the photos
to hide the crack you made
when you smashed the walls--
the walls you thought kept you out
when you forgot they kept you safe
another hole
10,001
so a frame might cover
another tentacle of the crack
racing from floor to ceiling
stretching out finger-like
plaster cast of a broken heart
Battered
You play music like a man possessed ...
you tell me this is the only time
you feel liberated and unfettered
from the banality of day to day
and I don’t feel slighted
because we all hanker for a soul’s pure freedom
You tell me the notes are demanding
and you, their instrument, must do their bidding
until the music stretches the ordinary
as tightly as you stretch the strings of your battered Gibson
until the notes become something else...
something you lay claim to
Read the poetry of Kim Talon
Read a profile of Kim Talon
Claudine C. Wargel
|
Claudine C. Wargel Finds The Rhythm Of The Cypress |
The Wind
So much is gone, fleeting
Yet captured,
Seared into matter that records, inexplicably.
Cypress rests in piles where it had stretched skyward,
Embracing a bounty of golden grain.
Flow. Fill. Chaff-filled sky.
Flow, deplete, wait.
Then fill.
The corn, the beans—an annual tide.
Moved in, moved out.
Coon, sparrow, rat--
They come, play, eat and lay.
Down, over, up, across. Grain moves.
Up, then down, goes man, goes child.
Down, then up, go beans, go corn.
Up then down go beans, go boards.
Kittens duck amid its feet, darting through the dark.
It hulks, it holds.
It shivers as its treasure lays in.
And then, 110 years in…
The Wind.
Potent. Unyielding.
Stressing. Straining.
Snapping cypress.
Now - long gone the grain, the rat, the cat.
Still near the watchful man, the now-grown child.
Down, down, back to soil
Go cypress beams, go cypress planks.
But never gone
The days of gold and hearts well fed.
Read the poetry of Claudine C. Wargel
Read a profile of Claudine C. Wargel
So much is gone, fleeting
Yet captured,
Seared into matter that records, inexplicably.
Cypress rests in piles where it had stretched skyward,
Embracing a bounty of golden grain.
Flow. Fill. Chaff-filled sky.
Flow, deplete, wait.
Then fill.
The corn, the beans—an annual tide.
Moved in, moved out.
Coon, sparrow, rat--
They come, play, eat and lay.
Down, over, up, across. Grain moves.
Up, then down, goes man, goes child.
Down, then up, go beans, go corn.
Up then down go beans, go boards.
Kittens duck amid its feet, darting through the dark.
It hulks, it holds.
It shivers as its treasure lays in.
And then, 110 years in…
The Wind.
Potent. Unyielding.
Stressing. Straining.
Snapping cypress.
Now - long gone the grain, the rat, the cat.
Still near the watchful man, the now-grown child.
Down, down, back to soil
Go cypress beams, go cypress planks.
But never gone
The days of gold and hearts well fed.
Read the poetry of Claudine C. Wargel
Read a profile of Claudine C. Wargel
Two Minimalist Poems From The Pen
Of Danny P. Barbare
Danny P. Barbare
|
Your Eyes In your eyes I find kindness that sits and sits with me awhile oh how they shine like a candle so still they are warm like a glass of wine a moment that is crystal. At Bojangles I like the chatter of people as it’s like gravy on my mashed potatoes, with cold coleslaw, soft biscuits, and a spicy breast of chicken. Read the poetry of Danny P. Barbare Read a profile of Danny P. Barbare |
Ann Huang
|
Ann Huang's Latest: A Small Window Into A Life |
Sarah ☊
Those are the moments that keep you alive.
You whisper to the candle light.
You eat cake
Beyond a close proximity--
The reservoir bank
In the way that age moves on.
You are young except for those who are younger
Over and over.
And to be glued on to each other
Both of us like shards awaiting to be glued on,
That were not what age enlisted.
The planters you refused to receive
With tea tree oil and berry currants,
The crescent springs you created upon yourself.
Those are the moments that keep you alive.
You whisper to the candle light.
You eat cake
Beyond a close proximity--
The reservoir bank
In the way that age moves on.
You are young except for those who are younger
Over and over.
And to be glued on to each other
Both of us like shards awaiting to be glued on,
That were not what age enlisted.
The planters you refused to receive
With tea tree oil and berry currants,
The crescent springs you created upon yourself.
Charlie Brice
|
Charlie Brice Ponders The Last
|
We’ll All See God but Not with Our Eyes
What was Jim Harrison thinking
the day before Easter 2016,
the day he died. He lay
on his studio floor
pen in hand. He’d
been writing a poem
when his chest closed. He
believed, despite all evidence,
in the resurrection.
Was he thinking of Jesus,
His blood spoor lancing
the atmosphere as He ascended,
or was Jim preoccupied
with holding on as he fell
through the upended sky,
grasping souls of the Anasazi,
not yet inured to the mud bath
of death, or the nitwits
he’d have to put up with
in heaven? Was he thinking
of Linda, his wife of fifty years,
gone only months before,
or of the many bears he knew,
revered, and feared?
Was he scratching the chin
of a favorite birddog, maybe
his hound Rose, whom he loved
beyond expression? Maybe
he had a vision of the rear-end
of a waitress he knew in town,
how she smelled, to him, of roast
beef, potatoes, and gravy.
Was he thinking of the meadowlarks,
crows, kingfishers, and cowbirds
who accompanied him on what
he called “this bloody voyage?”
And what of the pounds
of pork roast, foie gras,
and quail he ate--
the gallons of vodka shooters
and Brouilly he drank,
the packs of American Spirits,
the brisket from Zingerman’s,
buckets of tears shed
over impulsively opened
and consumed cans of Hormel
Chili, or the Herculean effort
expended on that famous
thirty-seven course thirteen wine lunch
he ate in France with a few cronies?
Or maybe he finally became
a bird, his lifelong ambition,
and flew into that cloud he dreamed
and shared with us.
Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
Read a profile of Charlie Brice
What was Jim Harrison thinking
the day before Easter 2016,
the day he died. He lay
on his studio floor
pen in hand. He’d
been writing a poem
when his chest closed. He
believed, despite all evidence,
in the resurrection.
Was he thinking of Jesus,
His blood spoor lancing
the atmosphere as He ascended,
or was Jim preoccupied
with holding on as he fell
through the upended sky,
grasping souls of the Anasazi,
not yet inured to the mud bath
of death, or the nitwits
he’d have to put up with
in heaven? Was he thinking
of Linda, his wife of fifty years,
gone only months before,
or of the many bears he knew,
revered, and feared?
Was he scratching the chin
of a favorite birddog, maybe
his hound Rose, whom he loved
beyond expression? Maybe
he had a vision of the rear-end
of a waitress he knew in town,
how she smelled, to him, of roast
beef, potatoes, and gravy.
Was he thinking of the meadowlarks,
crows, kingfishers, and cowbirds
who accompanied him on what
he called “this bloody voyage?”
And what of the pounds
of pork roast, foie gras,
and quail he ate--
the gallons of vodka shooters
and Brouilly he drank,
the packs of American Spirits,
the brisket from Zingerman’s,
buckets of tears shed
over impulsively opened
and consumed cans of Hormel
Chili, or the Herculean effort
expended on that famous
thirty-seven course thirteen wine lunch
he ate in France with a few cronies?
Or maybe he finally became
a bird, his lifelong ambition,
and flew into that cloud he dreamed
and shared with us.
Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
Read a profile of Charlie Brice
Caleb Coy: Conception, Heredity, Miracle
Caleb Coy
|
Birds and Bees Hearing of birds and bees I stood at the threshold of life: It wasn’t dad’s idea, Nor was it mom’s, That when two parts joined I would have dad’s brown hair, Mom’s effortless smile, Grandpa’s distinctive laugh, Grandma’s needful vision, To be sewn together intricately With the entire history Of mankind—hearts and Vessels, nerves and Brains, bones and Sinews, livers and Nodes, all trailing behind A single spermatozoa, A bright future ahead of him, Driven by divine laws of nature A single agent of fertility. Genius and Venus Could never conceive of such a “thing” Not even with twinkles in their eyes. Read the poetry of Caleb Coy Read a profile of Caleb Coy |
Angele Ellis
|
Angele Ellis With Heat And Fire In Her Latest Poem |
Flashover
~ the sudden spread of flame over an area
when heated to the flash point
too armored to feel
searching for bodies
our gaze is forced upward
counting as the flames
in the control chamber
rise to this moment
near the melting point
smoke clouds churn
the room goes dark
flashover
blue-white fingers beckon
from the roiling ceiling
as if to guide us
on each new call
we must decide
whether to stare into the fire
or flush it out
Read the poetry of Angele Ellis
Read a profile of Angele Ellis
~ the sudden spread of flame over an area
when heated to the flash point
too armored to feel
searching for bodies
our gaze is forced upward
counting as the flames
in the control chamber
rise to this moment
near the melting point
smoke clouds churn
the room goes dark
flashover
blue-white fingers beckon
from the roiling ceiling
as if to guide us
on each new call
we must decide
whether to stare into the fire
or flush it out
Read the poetry of Angele Ellis
Read a profile of Angele Ellis
Torrin Greathouse
|
Torrin Greathouse And The Shock Of Earthquakes |
This is Not a Drill
When the shaking begins in your feet,
when the desks and windows begin to shake,
you will know it is coming.
The aftershocks are more dangerous than the initial
quake.
Get under your desk, curl up as tightly as you can,
wrap your hands behind your head to protect it.
If there is not a desk, hide your body in the safety of a
doorway,
if you can, get outside, get away from anything that could crush you.
In school they did drills
twice a month, taught us to recognize the signs
of a coming earthquake and prepare.
You will feel the shaking in your feet,
but no one taught me what to do
when it begins like a well trained bullet,
right between my eyes.
When there is nothing to curl my body under,
when wrapping my hands around my head
will feel like locking a wolf inside of my bedroom,
feeding it on only my blood,
and expecting safe passage to sleep.
When everything is shaking like I am a rabbit in
Rottweiler jaws,
and nowhere seems safe from the gut stomp
of the sky curving in on me.
There is no training course for this,
and it is never a drill.
There is only collapse,
and rebuild.
Two fractured knuckles and the jagged scars
crisscrossing my upper thigh,
one steel frying pan left practically unusable
from the fist sized dent we couldn't work out.
San Francisco, 1906.
Waking up drunk in a field,
socks, shoes, and my favorite shirt never recovered,
calling off work for the first time
because my shift started in two hours
and I still couldn't stand.
Loma Prieta, 1989.
Tonight I had to hide the knives again,
and I am staring down the bottle of wine like a dog dare,
like the safety of a doorway blinking green with the word
exit,
like the barrel of my father's favorite gun.
But I do not drink,
I sit here on the balcony, chain smoking,
waiting for the sky to crush me,
or the shaking to cease.
Remembering the aftershocks
are more dangerous than the initial quake.
Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse
Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse
When the shaking begins in your feet,
when the desks and windows begin to shake,
you will know it is coming.
The aftershocks are more dangerous than the initial
quake.
Get under your desk, curl up as tightly as you can,
wrap your hands behind your head to protect it.
If there is not a desk, hide your body in the safety of a
doorway,
if you can, get outside, get away from anything that could crush you.
In school they did drills
twice a month, taught us to recognize the signs
of a coming earthquake and prepare.
You will feel the shaking in your feet,
but no one taught me what to do
when it begins like a well trained bullet,
right between my eyes.
When there is nothing to curl my body under,
when wrapping my hands around my head
will feel like locking a wolf inside of my bedroom,
feeding it on only my blood,
and expecting safe passage to sleep.
When everything is shaking like I am a rabbit in
Rottweiler jaws,
and nowhere seems safe from the gut stomp
of the sky curving in on me.
There is no training course for this,
and it is never a drill.
There is only collapse,
and rebuild.
Two fractured knuckles and the jagged scars
crisscrossing my upper thigh,
one steel frying pan left practically unusable
from the fist sized dent we couldn't work out.
San Francisco, 1906.
Waking up drunk in a field,
socks, shoes, and my favorite shirt never recovered,
calling off work for the first time
because my shift started in two hours
and I still couldn't stand.
Loma Prieta, 1989.
Tonight I had to hide the knives again,
and I am staring down the bottle of wine like a dog dare,
like the safety of a doorway blinking green with the word
exit,
like the barrel of my father's favorite gun.
But I do not drink,
I sit here on the balcony, chain smoking,
waiting for the sky to crush me,
or the shaking to cease.
Remembering the aftershocks
are more dangerous than the initial quake.
Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse
Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse