Archive #39
September, 2016
Oracles
Ever since I was a kid it was the outcast I was attracted to, someone who didn’t quite fit in the girl who leaned to one side as she walked, pensive as a falling leaf, the guy who came from the country claiming to know all the symphonies the wind played. Schooling & age have not changed me have only confirmed in me a love of the eccentric a woman as shy as a hummingbird a man who lies on his back contemplating the clouds telling me how much he loved his mother back then in that small town. They in turn overlook the way I tilt my head, listening to them as if they are oracles gazing into the never-ending depths of their eyes. Read the poetry of Mark Gordon Read a profile of Mark Gordon
Photo art by Diana Matisz. Click photo for a larger view.
sudden storm
my resolve in puddles
Yellow Tomatoes
I once thought I could know anything The death knowledge of the Buddha The clarifying call of Gabriel Former lives and abetting suns That enthrall worlds more able than mine I too never doubted my time supply To be the daughter of the dying father Who buries without the blow of love regret But my father is dying an excessive death With a wounded body that aligns Rare moments of life To the faint efforts of his mind And I do I offer my happy baby’s dance Ask about our mayor and the bad president So together We can wave our related heads with a laugh I bring home the foods he likes to eat Chocolate sugar-free A bag of sweet yellow tomatoes That falls when his good hand forgets to grab And when he insists on phoning my mother Makes a promise that he won’t speak drink I dial I do I dance Far from the Buddha knowledge of the giving death Deaf to the recurring chant of Gabriel Books by my bed and worlds of grace That I grasp But lack the good hand with which to grab Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero
Man-made Lake
Crossing the Texan plain in September, in the back of a Ford with my sister and folks, windows wide open to catch the hot breezes that whistle like freight trains from the horizon, I hear our mother whisper to father, “Soon, all this will be underwater.” My sister and I are astonished to silence: the sun-bleached sky gives no sign of moisture. Will Noah’s flood now reach into Texas, the day of retribution at last (thank you Jesus), and our parents again keeping it from us? A dragonfly shimmers, or is it a minnow? That buzzard, who floats without any tether, might be a seagull, searching for trash. Those cattle—they’ll drown, their brown eyes like bubbles, panicked and rolling around and around. These scrawny trees will be waving like seaweed and the tumbleweeds turn into prickly blowfish. Now, everything opens to change: deserts can be oceans and rivers run dry, valleys slice through the unsteady earth. We whisper together in the back seat, urging the old Ford to flee toward home: Lord, none but you can save us. Your yellow eye watches. We sweat as we pray, please, please, don’t send the rains. Read the poetry of Anara Guard Read a profile of Anara Guard Donal Mahoney: Ever Observant, Even After
Baptism
Each generation inherits the sins of their fathers Never a clean start, never a new beginning The cries of every killer still echo in our ears And the blood of the victims is still caked on our hands It all carries forward, never falls away But we try Baptism by fire, by immersion, by sacrifice Baptism by kisses, by caresses, by loving glances Cleansing, nay, scouring the soul Removing the stains of a thousand lifetimes It would take the rest of time to account for all our sins But we try Time is a harsh mistress for a tender heart For a lonely heart in a time of decadence So dance away your pain and your regrets Dance until your feet blister and bleed Twist and turn like a dervish of desire and lust Shake off the dust of the past and leap Into the arms of your lover The road to salvation is paved with Mingled tears and tangled tongues Read the poetry of Brian Mosher Read a profile of Brian Mosher
Hestia
When we were married, I wanted to learn to make clothing. I needed that connection to my body, a sweater of my making. I never learned to knit. I always wanted to, wanted two hands working to make things that are soft and wrap neatly around my neck, my shoulders. I wanted the magic to turn simple yarn into wearable art, into an expression of domestic affection, but where was home? I sit on a wooden chair, on a simple white cushion and I polish stones. My hands are always busy, always moving, but they make no knitted art. I can even crochet, with loops and hooks and turn a skein into any number of square things, or a hat that’s far too big to fit on a human head. (I wear it anyway.) I felt that if I could knit I could pick up the disparate threads and blend them into the square of my hearth. I would learn how to cast on and cast nets around everyone who had no hope for more. I could find stragglers and ken them into my life, my home, I could embrace you and sing gladly. But I never learned how to knit. Maybe it’s because you told me that needles are too sharp anyhow. Maybe I could prick my finger. Maybe not Hestia but a modern Sleeping Beauty, I would impale myself on a knitting needle and sleep until you woke me, when you wanted me to wake. Instead of knitting I learned to weave, to leave and wake myself. No offering bowls, no blessed hearth. I wove a coat and wore it out in autumn. Read the poetry of Jen Strin Read a profile of Jen Stein J Matthew Waters Finds Solace
|
J Matthew Waters
|
the violin and the piano ☊ their sound supersedes the clamor and the simmering pot not quite boiling not quite understood the floors mean nothing they’ve since been replaced replaced but not restored never to be the same appearing out of nowhere like a silver moon in disguise the music filters through making my world come to life the violin and the piano still echo in these walls comforting my sorrow and giving me repose |
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters
Read a profile of J Matthew Waters
Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters
Read a profile of J Matthew Waters
Kelli Russell Agodon
|
Kelli Russell Agodon Finds Delightful Humor In The Awkward |
Under the Covers We Find Jesus
Under the covers we find a picture of Jesus
and you say your mother was cleaning
the guest room,
cleaning and it must have fallen
from the wall.
You say your mother, a neatnik,
was cleaning and she didn’t leave Jesus
in our bed as a reminder,
the reminder we’re not married.
It’s not a sign of our soon-to-be sin,
Jesus in our bed, an accident, a misplaced Lord.
There is a small plastic Mary on the dresser.
You say, If she wanted to scare us,
Mary would be upside down on the pillow.
Still, Jesus appeared in his thorny crown as I pulled
down the sheets, Jesus and his soft brown eyes,
so welcoming, so forgiving,
Jesus, sweet Jesus
with lips like yours, pink and ready to kiss
goodbye to this evening, this faithful evening
of figs left on the counter
by your mother, figs and a loaf of fresh bread
she baked with faithful hands.
Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon
Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon
Under the covers we find a picture of Jesus
and you say your mother was cleaning
the guest room,
cleaning and it must have fallen
from the wall.
You say your mother, a neatnik,
was cleaning and she didn’t leave Jesus
in our bed as a reminder,
the reminder we’re not married.
It’s not a sign of our soon-to-be sin,
Jesus in our bed, an accident, a misplaced Lord.
There is a small plastic Mary on the dresser.
You say, If she wanted to scare us,
Mary would be upside down on the pillow.
Still, Jesus appeared in his thorny crown as I pulled
down the sheets, Jesus and his soft brown eyes,
so welcoming, so forgiving,
Jesus, sweet Jesus
with lips like yours, pink and ready to kiss
goodbye to this evening, this faithful evening
of figs left on the counter
by your mother, figs and a loaf of fresh bread
she baked with faithful hands.
Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon
Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon
Lisa Folkmire's Latest Is A Piece Of
Lyricism And Magic
Lisa Folkmire
|
The Great Cowboy of the Midwest The hook tied to the end of his yellow line Pulling toward green-light leaves the summer’s sun. The Great Cowboy of the Midwest takes out his lasso twirls it through the air that floats down the river of woods twisting his shoulders As his voice hums along To a phantom clip-clop And he falls into routine Back, forth, back, forth His dance blocks the sun from exiting the trees. Rope whipping against the wind and sliding its graze across the branches. He perfects his form swaying back and forth The crowd staring past at the two dogs sniffing around his ankles. The line has been thrown to the trees time and again, the only ritual he practices. Summers were made for practice. He completes his grand finale, This rodeo’s conclusion. Branches bow to tease his line He hopes to catch nothing. Read the poetry of Lisa Folkmire Read a profile of Lisa Folkmire |
Mary Jo Balistreri
|
Mary Jo Balistreri Touches The Morning With Her Lyricism |
Early Morning Blessing
Sleep-drugged and slow-moving,
the day sits cold and gray.
I cook sugar water for hummers,
court orioles with orange and grape jelly.
When the sun comes out with its long taper
to candle nectar and green silence,
shadows falter and slink away, replaced
by flickering votives to honor the day.
Now red-winged blackbirds flame the air
and finches, those haloes of buttery yellow,
hover above buds of palest pink until the entire
backyard glows in the vast rose window of morning.
Read the poetry of Mary Jo Balistreri
Read a profile of Mary Jo Balistreri
Sleep-drugged and slow-moving,
the day sits cold and gray.
I cook sugar water for hummers,
court orioles with orange and grape jelly.
When the sun comes out with its long taper
to candle nectar and green silence,
shadows falter and slink away, replaced
by flickering votives to honor the day.
Now red-winged blackbirds flame the air
and finches, those haloes of buttery yellow,
hover above buds of palest pink until the entire
backyard glows in the vast rose window of morning.
Read the poetry of Mary Jo Balistreri
Read a profile of Mary Jo Balistreri
Rowena Carenen
|
Rowena Carenen Faces The Difficulty Of Saying Goodbye |
She Got Sick
Fast.
And I couldn’t help.
I wrapped my constant companion
in a once white towel,
forced the murky mixture
of water and canned food,
that smelled like rancid
pate, down her throat
with a syringe.
Three times a day
for a week.
I held her, rocking,
for forty-five minutes,
and sang old hymns
while she tried to purr.
I’d lay on my stomach
to tell her about my day
so she wouldn’t be lonely
under the bed.
The last night she went blind
and lost the strength that propelled
her to the top of my dresser
in pursuit of slips and hair ties.
The vet and tech wept with me,
let me hold her, soothe her,
tell her I was so glad
she picked me to be her mom.
I’m still not sure, sometimes,
how to say goodbye.
There is still hair on my robe.
Read the poetry of Rowena Carenen
Read a profile of Rowena Carenen
Fast.
And I couldn’t help.
I wrapped my constant companion
in a once white towel,
forced the murky mixture
of water and canned food,
that smelled like rancid
pate, down her throat
with a syringe.
Three times a day
for a week.
I held her, rocking,
for forty-five minutes,
and sang old hymns
while she tried to purr.
I’d lay on my stomach
to tell her about my day
so she wouldn’t be lonely
under the bed.
The last night she went blind
and lost the strength that propelled
her to the top of my dresser
in pursuit of slips and hair ties.
The vet and tech wept with me,
let me hold her, soothe her,
tell her I was so glad
she picked me to be her mom.
I’m still not sure, sometimes,
how to say goodbye.
There is still hair on my robe.
Read the poetry of Rowena Carenen
Read a profile of Rowena Carenen
Sharon Brogan Has Some Advice For Poets...Sort of
Sharon Brogan
|
How Not to Write A Poem Keep busy. Clean the house. Empty the kitchen cabinets. Scrub them out. Put it all back. Organize the junk drawer. No music. No dancing. No long walks unless talking and texting with friends at the same time. Read a light novel. Or two. Or three. Do not read poems. Watch the news. Get angry. Go shopping. Drive fast. Avoid introspection. Do not meditate. Ignore your dreams. Always do two or three things at once. Watch television while on the internet. Pay no attention to non-human animals. Stay out of the woods. Avoid gardens, lakes, strange neighborhoods, and the sea. At all costs avoid the sea. Develop an active social life. Resist solitude. Party hard. Don’t wake up. Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan Read a profile of Sharon Brogan |
Grace Pasco
|
Grace Pasco Copes With A
|
Someone Else
Sometimes, I,
I lie awake and think of a sturdy someone's pectoral muscles
As my pillow, which
Are now someone else's pillow.
I reach for my rectangular squishable object of comfort
And lay my head like so.
I then imagine his breath
Over my head and
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
And try not to think about the sex that I'm not having.
That someone else is having.
So I reach for a sixteen-ounce glass of cold water
And take a forty-five-minute shower.
And if that doesn't work, I try not to open online messengers
To send a meagre text.
Because he's probably going to respond to the one
That I'm not sending.
That someone else is sending.
It's a happy ending, really
For all of us involved,
But I still get hit with
"I-miss-you" spells at night and
Sometimes in the morning,
Or is it just because I need to be pressing some kind of
Reset button.
Not like it's new or nothin'
They didn't happen overnight
All of a sudden.
Besides,
We've had plenty of space
And months have passed.
We have an ocean and a continent between us
So if that's not enough
What is this heart-string unsnipped from his
Existence which might as well be in another planet.
Can't you tell I didn't plan this?
But it is 2am. Last time I checked
It was ten to two. I've got work in the morning
And for a while, I forgot how to pray,
So again, I then,
I then imagine his breath
Over my head,
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
Read the poetry of Grace Pasco
Read a profile of Grace Pasco
Sometimes, I,
I lie awake and think of a sturdy someone's pectoral muscles
As my pillow, which
Are now someone else's pillow.
I reach for my rectangular squishable object of comfort
And lay my head like so.
I then imagine his breath
Over my head and
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
And try not to think about the sex that I'm not having.
That someone else is having.
So I reach for a sixteen-ounce glass of cold water
And take a forty-five-minute shower.
And if that doesn't work, I try not to open online messengers
To send a meagre text.
Because he's probably going to respond to the one
That I'm not sending.
That someone else is sending.
It's a happy ending, really
For all of us involved,
But I still get hit with
"I-miss-you" spells at night and
Sometimes in the morning,
Or is it just because I need to be pressing some kind of
Reset button.
Not like it's new or nothin'
They didn't happen overnight
All of a sudden.
Besides,
We've had plenty of space
And months have passed.
We have an ocean and a continent between us
So if that's not enough
What is this heart-string unsnipped from his
Existence which might as well be in another planet.
Can't you tell I didn't plan this?
But it is 2am. Last time I checked
It was ten to two. I've got work in the morning
And for a while, I forgot how to pray,
So again, I then,
I then imagine his breath
Over my head,
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
Read the poetry of Grace Pasco
Read a profile of Grace Pasco
Two Poems Of The Sea From
Leslie Philibert
Leslie Philibert
|
Rungholt Whirls of wicker and calico of turf and salt, of cats and fish. The eyes of those surprised by sudden depths are bitter and open. They drink sea under the glass of a cracked tide, in dark tunnels of waves. The water children flail under a sea moon. The sea drags across the dark silt: hear the bell, hear the bells The Sea at Night a move of broken glass black as polished leather, burnt wood, the big shifter that trembles steel under us, the horizon hides, above a curtain made of holes with stars around as the lost language of wind, howls of salt, tide of night Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert Read a profile of Leslie Philibert |
Amy Soricelli
|
Amy Soricelli And The Nature
|
Colorblind
We see what we see from the eyes that we are.
Cloudy eyelashes blinking under small pellets of belief.
Fear like thin meat captured between safe slices of bread -
us hiding under school desks bias written in ink across our faces.
We can't snap a picture of hate it can't hold its liquor.
It staggers down the stairs cursing in tongues.
It sees us the next morning shame-walking in yesterday's clothes
regret held together like a zipper.
I learned about eyes as they traveled across me staggering lopsided
fumbling in the dark like a bad date; sliding its prejudice next to me on
the train -
its paper swung open over holy knees lost edgy souls.
They sleep across the edge of a knife.
See White. See Black. See Nothing.
If I walk through the rooms of us each painted corner an empty chair -
silhouettes shrouded over in grocery store plastic.
Our shadows outlined with police tape peel off without effort.
That is what these eyes see I am the white friend you are the black friend
watch us disappear.
We feel what we feel from the pulse of our heart.
Slow moving knuckles beating quietly across our chests.
We can love a handful of people deeply -
others found on the edges of the very place we leave.
We have all tasted slammed door noises chairs sliding across the hall.
Bad neighborhood garbage cans lonely cries sirens in the night.
Blind alleys lost dogs manhole covers slipping up cars
Johnny pumps aimed like rain.
We are the sprays of dusty water we hide from.
The dirt deep under our nails.
Taught to hate one other -
We are the eyes under our skins.
Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli
Read a profile of Amy Soricelli
We see what we see from the eyes that we are.
Cloudy eyelashes blinking under small pellets of belief.
Fear like thin meat captured between safe slices of bread -
us hiding under school desks bias written in ink across our faces.
We can't snap a picture of hate it can't hold its liquor.
It staggers down the stairs cursing in tongues.
It sees us the next morning shame-walking in yesterday's clothes
regret held together like a zipper.
I learned about eyes as they traveled across me staggering lopsided
fumbling in the dark like a bad date; sliding its prejudice next to me on
the train -
its paper swung open over holy knees lost edgy souls.
They sleep across the edge of a knife.
See White. See Black. See Nothing.
If I walk through the rooms of us each painted corner an empty chair -
silhouettes shrouded over in grocery store plastic.
Our shadows outlined with police tape peel off without effort.
That is what these eyes see I am the white friend you are the black friend
watch us disappear.
We feel what we feel from the pulse of our heart.
Slow moving knuckles beating quietly across our chests.
We can love a handful of people deeply -
others found on the edges of the very place we leave.
We have all tasted slammed door noises chairs sliding across the hall.
Bad neighborhood garbage cans lonely cries sirens in the night.
Blind alleys lost dogs manhole covers slipping up cars
Johnny pumps aimed like rain.
We are the sprays of dusty water we hide from.
The dirt deep under our nails.
Taught to hate one other -
We are the eyes under our skins.
Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli
Read a profile of Amy Soricelli
Doc Burkard
|
Doc Burkard's Roots Are
|
Ancestry
I want to walk on the bottom of the ocean,
that is where I am from,
all of my ancestors living in one house
in the middle of the black sea,
at the mouth of a trench that leads to the center of the earth.
Every night after work their calls could deafen every city on the map;
their screams forming into matter
that clogs my arteries and hardens my liver
each day trying to drag me back home.
Read the poetry of Doc Burkard
Read a profile of Doc Burkard
I want to walk on the bottom of the ocean,
that is where I am from,
all of my ancestors living in one house
in the middle of the black sea,
at the mouth of a trench that leads to the center of the earth.
Every night after work their calls could deafen every city on the map;
their screams forming into matter
that clogs my arteries and hardens my liver
each day trying to drag me back home.
Read the poetry of Doc Burkard
Read a profile of Doc Burkard
Kim Talon
|
Kim Talon On Our Relationship With The Natural World |
Perhaps
Perhaps they know better than I
unconcerned with the world
where a driver can’t be trusted
to parallel park without a car’s help
perhaps they just don’t care
about selfies
and blogging
and tweets--
just the noise a bird makes
and perhaps our constant self-indulgence
could never extend to the natural world
for aren’t they the kings and queens of indifference?
the daffodils bloom every year
ignorant things with fluted faces
preening in the sun
oblivious of friends or fashion or followers
should I envy them?
perhaps…
Read the poetry of Kim Talon
Read a profile of Kim Talon
Perhaps they know better than I
unconcerned with the world
where a driver can’t be trusted
to parallel park without a car’s help
perhaps they just don’t care
about selfies
and blogging
and tweets--
just the noise a bird makes
and perhaps our constant self-indulgence
could never extend to the natural world
for aren’t they the kings and queens of indifference?
the daffodils bloom every year
ignorant things with fluted faces
preening in the sun
oblivious of friends or fashion or followers
should I envy them?
perhaps…
Read the poetry of Kim Talon
Read a profile of Kim Talon
E. Michael Desilets
|
E. Michael Desilets: The Timing Is All |
Upstaged
The fiddler stepped back from the microphone.
The cellist,
eyes closed,
red gown
commanding the spotlight,
took possession of “Da Slockit Light,”
provoking remembered and imagined
visions of wakes, funerals, untended
parish graveyards.
The piper pumped his right arm gently
to add his solemn drone. Three sophomores
on Palmer Street crouched in unison
to peer through the window just as
the lights failed.
Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets
The fiddler stepped back from the microphone.
The cellist,
eyes closed,
red gown
commanding the spotlight,
took possession of “Da Slockit Light,”
provoking remembered and imagined
visions of wakes, funerals, untended
parish graveyards.
The piper pumped his right arm gently
to add his solemn drone. Three sophomores
on Palmer Street crouched in unison
to peer through the window just as
the lights failed.
Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets
Edjo Frank's Stark Portrait
Of Aging, Mortality
Edjo Frank
|
The Bowed Man stiff dragging legs follow worn shoes step by step by step a cap and a stick in a wrinkled hand the other hand on his back to keep his direction dazzlingly slow to the end of the street step by step by step an alien in the crowds a crow without screech gaze fixed on the pavement life goes on at different speeds to be discovered step by step by step at the next stretch inexorably ahead every street corner calls for a decision to the other side step by step by step turn left, right or time takes the decision out of his hands step by step by step he shuffles uncertainly up to the curb the pedestrian signal ticking fast hurry up bowed man your time is running out Read the poetry of Edjo Frank Read a profile of Edjo Frank |
Marie Anzalone
|
Marie Anzalone Ponders How
|
Salted Caramels
Today was a good day,
and I loved you in it,
from afar. I did not love
you because it was a
good day; nor was it a
good day because I
loved you. The love was
incidental, a by-product
of things. Yet it made
the day wider and
gladder, extended its
hand to me. Not the
commanding type of
love, more the sit by
my side and make me
watch clouds build
into thunderstorms type.
I ate the second-to-last
plastic wrapped little
square caramel in the
house today, sprinkled
with smoked salt
and served on a sliver
of green mango. The
tastes melted like poetry,
and I wished you were
there, I wanted to feed
you some, with my fingers,
directly to your mouth to
linger and caress, your
tongue- it was THAT kind
of love, that kind of day.
Instead I sat in new
terraced soils, alone
under tropical sunlight
pondering what crossing
borders on some maps
really would do to the
natural order that
documents freedom
of thought in places
of low latitude.
I rubbed massage oil
between my palms,
and thought, I should
probably buy more
caramels; I may get
brave enough on your
next visit to tell you
the wisdom of which
the clouds informed me
today.
Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone
Read a profile of Marie Anzalone
Today was a good day,
and I loved you in it,
from afar. I did not love
you because it was a
good day; nor was it a
good day because I
loved you. The love was
incidental, a by-product
of things. Yet it made
the day wider and
gladder, extended its
hand to me. Not the
commanding type of
love, more the sit by
my side and make me
watch clouds build
into thunderstorms type.
I ate the second-to-last
plastic wrapped little
square caramel in the
house today, sprinkled
with smoked salt
and served on a sliver
of green mango. The
tastes melted like poetry,
and I wished you were
there, I wanted to feed
you some, with my fingers,
directly to your mouth to
linger and caress, your
tongue- it was THAT kind
of love, that kind of day.
Instead I sat in new
terraced soils, alone
under tropical sunlight
pondering what crossing
borders on some maps
really would do to the
natural order that
documents freedom
of thought in places
of low latitude.
I rubbed massage oil
between my palms,
and thought, I should
probably buy more
caramels; I may get
brave enough on your
next visit to tell you
the wisdom of which
the clouds informed me
today.
Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone
Read a profile of Marie Anzalone
L.L. Barkat
|
L.L. Barkat Imparts Detail And Delicacy To A Tea |
Set
This morning, in the sunset yellow dining room,
I held the Princeton to my lips, its handle soft
between my thumb and tiny index finger,
its gold rim imperceptible to taste, but circling
nonetheless.
Lazy, perhaps, or careless, I had seated the Princeton
in the Profile saucer (also white, also fine bone). Still.
When I held it close, and towards the light, my left hand
joining the embrace, I thought to ask you this:
Did you know, if you tilt the bone just right,
you can see the fingers silhouetted, on the other side.
Read the poetry of L.L. Barkat
Read a profile of L.L. Barkat
This morning, in the sunset yellow dining room,
I held the Princeton to my lips, its handle soft
between my thumb and tiny index finger,
its gold rim imperceptible to taste, but circling
nonetheless.
Lazy, perhaps, or careless, I had seated the Princeton
in the Profile saucer (also white, also fine bone). Still.
When I held it close, and towards the light, my left hand
joining the embrace, I thought to ask you this:
Did you know, if you tilt the bone just right,
you can see the fingers silhouetted, on the other side.
Read the poetry of L.L. Barkat
Read a profile of L.L. Barkat
Dane Cobain
|
Dane Cobain Is 21st Century Challenged—Like The Rest Of Us |
Struggling to Find Potential Usernames
She can’t be @RedLantern
‘cause it’s a takeaway place,
and @Red_Lantern is also some sort of restaurant
and @RedLighthouse has been taken
by some woman who hasn’t posted
since 2011;
@CarlaCobain could be cool,
but some fool is already using it
and there’s nothing I need to tell you;
meanwhile,
someone else has @LighthouseEyes
and @EyesLikeLighthouses
is three characters too long
and anyway,
then you’d have to explain
what it means;
I tried various combinations
on the theme of wolves and foxes,
like @LupineFox and @VulpineWolf,
and you know what?
Some bastards stole those, too.
Maybe I should stick to what I’m good at,
‘cause you were always one
for finding titles.
Read the poetry of Dane Cobain
Read a profile of Dane Cobain
She can’t be @RedLantern
‘cause it’s a takeaway place,
and @Red_Lantern is also some sort of restaurant
and @RedLighthouse has been taken
by some woman who hasn’t posted
since 2011;
@CarlaCobain could be cool,
but some fool is already using it
and there’s nothing I need to tell you;
meanwhile,
someone else has @LighthouseEyes
and @EyesLikeLighthouses
is three characters too long
and anyway,
then you’d have to explain
what it means;
I tried various combinations
on the theme of wolves and foxes,
like @LupineFox and @VulpineWolf,
and you know what?
Some bastards stole those, too.
Maybe I should stick to what I’m good at,
‘cause you were always one
for finding titles.
Read the poetry of Dane Cobain
Read a profile of Dane Cobain
Jill Lapin-Zell
|
Jill Lapin-Zell Reminds Us Of Winter's Advent |
November Cold Front
First snow of the season
snuck in last night
and painted the day
as temperatures
dropped
like an anvil from
an office building rooftop
boots, ski parka, gloves and hat
ice scraper scratching windows
defroster breathing heat
and loosening sheets of frost
to slide off my windshield
melting its way down to wiper blades
winter’s snide and crooked smile
challenging my strength and fortitude
as another year’s end game
begins in earnest
and darkness arrives by late afternoon
my personal thermostat
insulted by the need for layer upon layer
of warmies just for the pleasure of going out
to begin the adventure
of starting the car
and driving the tango of tires on icy streets
fear not being the fun it was when I was young
and invincible
laughing down mortality’s abyss
proudly skating the edges
for giggles, rushes and grins
and it might be nice
to live without winter
Read the poetry of Jill Lapin-Zell
Read a profile of Jill Lapin-Zell
First snow of the season
snuck in last night
and painted the day
as temperatures
dropped
like an anvil from
an office building rooftop
boots, ski parka, gloves and hat
ice scraper scratching windows
defroster breathing heat
and loosening sheets of frost
to slide off my windshield
melting its way down to wiper blades
winter’s snide and crooked smile
challenging my strength and fortitude
as another year’s end game
begins in earnest
and darkness arrives by late afternoon
my personal thermostat
insulted by the need for layer upon layer
of warmies just for the pleasure of going out
to begin the adventure
of starting the car
and driving the tango of tires on icy streets
fear not being the fun it was when I was young
and invincible
laughing down mortality’s abyss
proudly skating the edges
for giggles, rushes and grins
and it might be nice
to live without winter
Read the poetry of Jill Lapin-Zell
Read a profile of Jill Lapin-Zell
Ellen Conserva Celebrates Love,
Even When It Is Lost
Ellen Conserva
|
Sad Joy I have gathered Those colored pieces Of you and laid them into Myself Like pressing flowers In a book. You are there. You always will be. Pressed into me. The sad joy comes When I flip my Pages And a fragile flower, Saved long ago, Slides down Into my lap. Gingerly I cup it in my Hands And marvel at how beautiful It remains. Preserved in Me. You In Me. Still beautiful. Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva Read a profile of Ellen Conserva |
Caroline Skanne
|
Caroline Skanne's Poetry And Artwork |
dawn sparrows my children's voices
Claudine C. Wargel Mourns And
Targets Her Anger
Claudine C. Wargel
|
A Child Lost Whose hands could work such a heinous deed that laid to death this innocent child? A boy who bore-- though much he’d seen-- eyes unknowing and open. His smile willing, he welcomed a friend. He needed more than his world could give: Siblings many, provisions few, attentions were torn and jealousy thick. Barely hidden rage hung, a thin veil between his precious, tender beginning his promise and yearning, and his wrongful, woeful end. Who can regard his killer with love? Who can regard this monster without disdain? There is none. There is no cause, no mercy, no reason to find in hatred. Read the poetry of Claudine C. Wargel Read a profile of Claudine C. Wargel |
Peter V. Dugan
|
Peter V. Dugan And What Drives The Poet |
Divine Madness
I am caught between mirrors
while clowns with painted faces
reflections of the infinite
ignite the cobwebs in my head
surrounded by a veil of darkness
with a continuous oratorical ramble
where lost souls roam the streets
citing some lame excuse
like rabid dogs in heat
for the ineptitude and incompetence
no bounds, no borders
perpetrated upon us
where wealth is accrued
a melodrama of words
and then wagered
beheaded and disemboweled
with delusions of deliverance
woven, spun, bound together
in the light of new ideas
a choreography of language
fused by logic and reason
inciting and inspiring
with natural instincts
these word and images
opposing out-dated moralities
twisting and turning in my brain
and decaying values
curled like a coital knot of snakes
a torrid entrapment
drowning in the stream
beneath the shadow
of conscienousness
of the street corner gurus
stagnant water, without any depth
singing the suburban blues
I know it is time to turn off the TV
as these young lions roar
and write a poem
Read the poetry of Peter V. Dugan
Read a profile of Peter V. Dugan
I am caught between mirrors
while clowns with painted faces
reflections of the infinite
ignite the cobwebs in my head
surrounded by a veil of darkness
with a continuous oratorical ramble
where lost souls roam the streets
citing some lame excuse
like rabid dogs in heat
for the ineptitude and incompetence
no bounds, no borders
perpetrated upon us
where wealth is accrued
a melodrama of words
and then wagered
beheaded and disemboweled
with delusions of deliverance
woven, spun, bound together
in the light of new ideas
a choreography of language
fused by logic and reason
inciting and inspiring
with natural instincts
these word and images
opposing out-dated moralities
twisting and turning in my brain
and decaying values
curled like a coital knot of snakes
a torrid entrapment
drowning in the stream
beneath the shadow
of conscienousness
of the street corner gurus
stagnant water, without any depth
singing the suburban blues
I know it is time to turn off the TV
as these young lions roar
and write a poem
Read the poetry of Peter V. Dugan
Read a profile of Peter V. Dugan
Ann Huang
|
From Ann Huang, A View From The Nest Eternal |
Upstairs in Real Life ☊
Waking up,
you raise up clouded blinds
into the bright, and here we are:
Sentinels, wholeheartedly in and out
of the parks, nymphlike moody birds.
Upstairs in real life you turn
slowly into my animal-kingdom
that is obedient, absolute.
We do act. You do tease
often the sweet juicy songs up
in the big nest—more so a tease,
graciously satisfying. Eyes, plenty.
Our nymphlike moody birds.
More letters to remark or represent them.
We will hold onto this,
which was forever this way
as if it was the last.
Waking up,
you raise up clouded blinds
into the bright, and here we are:
Sentinels, wholeheartedly in and out
of the parks, nymphlike moody birds.
Upstairs in real life you turn
slowly into my animal-kingdom
that is obedient, absolute.
We do act. You do tease
often the sweet juicy songs up
in the big nest—more so a tease,
graciously satisfying. Eyes, plenty.
Our nymphlike moody birds.
More letters to remark or represent them.
We will hold onto this,
which was forever this way
as if it was the last.
Danielle Favorite Shares A Little Gothic
Danielle Favorite
|
Insomnia Observation It wasn’t until I looked through the moon that I realized oily, black leeches were feasting on my wild heart. “Too many daydreams,” explained my father. “Not enough light,” explained my mother. I drank saltwater to dry them out; I floated in the ocean to draw them out. They would not leave. My heart was draining. I became white watercolor with a hint of pink on my cheekbones, arctic blue on my lips. I only have so many heartbeats; they smack against my rib cage like birds hitting a window. Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite Read a profile of Danielle Favorite |
