Emily Strauss Composes A Letter
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Dear Reader If I could tie the world up in strings make a manageable bundle that you can carry neatly in your pocket with its name on the label so you can identify yourself then I will have solved your problem and I can let the words go again to tumble around the bottom of the jar like swill in a dank hold, and you, dear reader, can afford to ignore them-- the words I have hoarded so long will wash out to sea with the tide leaving you untouched and dry as you watch the dregs run past your feet without understanding. Read the poetry of Emily Strauss Read a profile of Emily Strauss |
New Grandchild Her cries become a palpable Sharp summoning to every fiber of my maternal being In her infant rage she manages to draw me into her echoing tiny protests Her entire small body is involved in her fury baby fists clenched her froggy legs now stretched out fully soul piercing outrage make me catch my breath I briefly wonder at her intensity this amazing elf like creature wielding so much power so much magnetic response Her power is complete Just as suddenly appeasement comes with a brief frantic searching and powerful attachment to the offered breast Read the poetry of Rivka Zorea Read a profile of Rivka Zorea |
Midsummer (Two Tanka) Deer in the hayfield – the dogs watch from a distance, underneath the pines, ears cocked, knowing their own minds with the sureness of old hills. A midsummer night breathes strangely erotic dreams through open windows clairvoying eleven does wandering in the shadows. Summer Sonnet Say you are the tomato plant in the container on the flagstone patio of her garden. She waters you when you droop, and snips away the superfluous yellow flowers. You are not the tomato plant in its entirety, in her eyes, you are one green tomato swelling to unlikely proportions. Ants trace the irregular canyons between artfully cut stone slabs. Now say you are an ant in a tent in the rain. She sleeps beside you. You both are dreaming of peonies. Read the poetry of Ray Sharp Read a profile of Ray Sharp |
Small Things: A Haiku Collection two ladybugs in an old match box - I miss my past a forgotten overcoat - in the pockets I find dried forget-me-nots rusty fishhooks - I still carry with me dad's wooden box buttons and needles - to my surprise grandaughter shows her treasure she blinks her left eye fast as a humming-bird I blink back - our flirtation a purse collapses open - miriad of beauty-gadgets spread on the floor pocketknife and a mini-flashlight - the boy's trade happens in a second Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon |
Snow We don’t talk about inevitabilities, but when the meteorologist talks about lake effects and the cold front push I fold the laundry and watch affected counties slide across the screen my hand caught, skin’s rough palm on your soft shirt. There are those details anyone might cling to: The sounds of the roads, impassable slush at 3am. They say it may fall all night like this. So hard to predict these cold and warm fronts coming together. I’ve left your slip, your dresses in the basket-- velvet arms folded across its chest. You are sleeping and outside a neighbor somewhere is trying to start a car. Trees hang glimmering like old fashioned chandeliers. The branches, so full of snow almost touch the ground. Read the poetry of Robert Walicki Read a profile of Robert Walicki |
The Changeover Déjà vu is just tired neurons firing into that part of the brain obsessed with the past. Would any of us be surprised if astronomers discover that the universe is sealed, shaped like a manila envelope? Dusk is a minor second resolving to a minor third, dissonance to sadness but relief nevertheless. I am obsessed with headphone jacks, deadbolts, and sterile nail clippers. What if what we fear isn’t that we’ll never change but that we keep missing it? Blinking sometimes skips scenes, sometimes entire chapters. They say human mouth cells replace themselves every twenty-four hours, so kiss me every morning as if for the first time. Read the poetry of Mark Dennis Anderson Read a profile of Mark Dennis Anderson |
Keep the Faith Everything is terrible, and I’m dreading the inevitable tension when I mention condescension, the lack of respect and the disdain I collect for the men we elect as representatives, senseless centres of excellence rendered helpless. The footnotes of history books were made for men like me, who were born early and blessed with a blend of graft and greatness, but I hate this life at times, and we all do. I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer, or to clown around with a Glasgow frown, causing trouble in smoking bubbles like the struggles we face on a daily basis, but you’ve gotta keep the faith if you want to win this race, and I hate the fates that make me late, the mistakes I made along the way, and the way I changed and stayed the same. Read the poetry of Dane Cobain Read a profile of Dane Cobain |
Familiar your hands feel familiar they are renegade tanks of warmth charging through layers of hair shooting pinpricks of invisible blood through epidermis and veins (i only meant to say hello to wish you well on your way but) your hands feel familiar i can’t make up my mind now if i should make them go away or make them want to stay or let my own go astray Read the poetry of Ramon Loyola Read a profile of Ramon Loyola |
The days so cold The days, so cold The nights, so long Another tundra wind from above timberline Wild geese and blue heron gone months ago, black bear, deep asleep Mule deer and elk hiding among pine and leafless aspen The clock ticks toward midnight The year ends Here, beside this glowing hearth you gently place your lips on mine Read the poetry of ayaz daryl nielsen Read a profile of ayaz daryl nielsen |
My Greedy Lover you you are like my greedy lover seducer of my mornings you would make me your slave! given your chance, you would selfishly keep me to yourself today ensconced in cool, tangled sheets and plumped within the confines of soft pillows enveloped in darkness embraced in your velvet warmth unabashedly undressed hair freshly tousled from dawn to dusk to satisfy your innate need to control me body and soul no words, no sounds no need for sustenance just a lover's greed you'll lick at me, teasing me softly beckoning me to join you for another go round how you tempt me! Oh Depression you'll not have your wicked way with me today Read he poetry of LA Lorena Read a profile of LA Lorena |
At a Writers Retreat in the North Woods of Wisconsin A heron braided in reeds and cattails scans the lake bides his time A school of minnows swims south in the pond aware too late of the heron’s spearsharp beak Hunger quenched the blue-shaped flight disappears in a gunmetal sky An intracloud flash brightens night like day Thunder crashes—too close And yet a ruby-throated hummer darts untroubled even as a rush of wind swings the feeder in a wide-wider arc on the porch Rain begins to ping then pelt the windows In our log cabin screen door left open we lie content on quilted beds inhale fresh air and pine the busyness we carried here erased by the green fuse of incipient summer-- receptive to woods and water fire and air our bodymind fills with a buoyancy that almost makes us giddy Your arm across my belly you turn and ask, What in the heck have we been doing with our time? Read the poetry of Mary Jo Balistreri Read a profile of Mary Jo Balistreri |
Timing Sunday taxi from the airport To the house An hour passed amongst Children Things set down in a place Reserved Electric clouds to yoga The intentioned drive A practice repeated endeavored Offered /Over The sushi chef mentions the score because I am there Tomorrow he will prepare My broth The sky drizzles headlights flaunt The rain /Again There are no brief moments that pass Us by Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero |
Trickle-Down Economics
It’s war plain and simple when I fill the feeder out in the sycamore with millet and niger and sunflower seed. Back in the house I stare out the window and watch juncos and chickadees bicker on the perch, spilling more than they eat. Cardinals and jays drive them away, argue and spill even more. Then starlings take over, and like rice at a wedding, seed fills the air pleasing the doves below. They walk like old nuns and peck at the manna. Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney Read a profile of Donal Mahoney |
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