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Archive #39
September, 2016


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Mark Gordon

Mark Gordon Finds Identity, Kinship In The Outliers

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
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Diana Matisz

New Poetry And Photo Art
From Diana Matisz

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Photo art by Diana Matisz. Click photo for a larger view.
sudden storm
my resolve
​in puddles
Enjoy the poetry and artwork of Diana Matisz
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Ana Caballero

Ana Caballero, Her Grasping and Her Giving

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
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​
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Anara Guard

Anara Guard: A Child's Imagination Soars To Fear

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
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Donal Mahoney: Ever Observant, Even After

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Donal Mahoney

​They Don't Know I'm Listening

So here I am, all decked out
in a new suit from Brooks Brothers,
haberdasher to corporate stars.

My wife just got here, rattled.
The kids have been here for hours, 
flying in for the occasion.

My wife will make certain  
I look as spiffy as possible. 
The oldest boy just told her

a neighbor has agreed
to cut the grass, rake the leaves 
and shovel the snow, chores 

I performed for decades in return 
for a mug of coffee and wedge of pie.
Now my wife is asking the undertaker  

to puff out my tie, something she did 
before I’d go to the office, armed 
with a thermos and brown paper bag.


Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney
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Brian Mosher

Brian Mosher On The "Clean
​Slate" Fallacy

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
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Jen Stein

Jen Stein's Latest Poem Weaves An Intricate Metaphor

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
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J Matthew Waters Finds Solace
Amid Turmoil

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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
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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
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Lisa Folkmire's Latest Is A Piece Of
​Lyricism And Magic

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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
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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
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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
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Sharon Brogan Has Some Advice For Poets...Sort of

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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
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Grace Pasco

Grace Pasco Copes With A
​Loss—Her Way

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
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​

Two Poems Of The Sea From
​Leslie Philibert

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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
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Amy Soricelli

Amy Soricelli And The Nature
Of Prejudice

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
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Soricelli

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Doc Burkard

Doc Burkard's Roots Are
​Briny Deep

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
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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
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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
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Edjo Frank's Stark Portrait
​Of Aging, Mortality

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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
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Marie Anzalone

Marie Anzalone Ponders How
​Love Is There And Here

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
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​
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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
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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.


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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
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Ellen Conserva Celebrates Love,
​Even When It Is Lost

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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.


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​
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Caroline Skanne

Caroline Skanne's Poetry And Artwork

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             dawn sparrows my children's voices
Enjoy the poetry and artwork of Caroline Skanne
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Claudine C. Wargel Mourns And
Targets Her Anger

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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
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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

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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.
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Danielle Favorite Shares A Little Gothic

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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.


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