Archive 3
September, 2013
"Chew You," A New Poem From Ana Caballero
 Ana Caballero
Chew You I’ve always loved left overs Cold, by the kitchen sink With dirty fingers and appalled mothers These, though, I will eat alone Sitting up In bed It was a good, unapologetic lay The day we tried To play for good But, it was really only a day One good day Condensed Into one good chew And now: One Strained Swallow Down the Hollow Drain Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero New On VerseWrights' Pages: Mark Windham
 Mark Windham
Fangzi Mian It is difficult to decide between the complex flavors of the house noodles and the fire of the spicy chicken. She was the first -- a rare beauty in an east Texas town -- with burning desire and a rebellious nature. She searched for something the boys who surrounded her could not provide. She tired of me faster than the fill of the lo mien fades, or the fire of the sauce subsides. Lately, I order the noodles more, preferring to savor the layers of life embedded in each bite. Occasionally though, there is still an appeal to the heat. Mark Windham lives in the northwest suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, two of his three children, and three dogs. He is self employed. His writing may be found on his personal blog entitled AwakenedWords. Publication credits Include Poetic Bloomings, The First Year, The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry, and The Dead Mule School Of Southern Literature among others. Read. "two good wanderers" From Joanna Suzanne Lee
 Joanna Suzanne Lee
two good wanderers ☊ our tongues travel cross continents in dreams as if they were camel-borne on some silk road, as if their shadows were tied in tangos, as if the sum of our kisses could account for something. your words are rain- drops that coalesce into the sadness of my plateglass thought- stream. they make for good poem weather, wet & expectant & yet a color is too weighty a thing to give singly and before a storm. still, it is better to build bridges from the edges of oceans: i would give you the blue in my eyes, except on the days they are green. there are many true worlds, poet, and the night touches them --all. See this poem read by Joanna Suzanne Lee Read Joanna Suzanne Lee's poetry Read a profile of Joanna Suzanne Lee From Debbie Strange, A New Poem: "folding"
 Debbie Strange
folding ☊ the faded pink sweater still hangs by the unravelled threads of her life from the broken hook of my heart edges worn thin and frayed warp and weft remember the shape of her body but never the scent of her skin buttonless now seams gaping as wide as grief i fold into her fingering the torn pocket for shreds of comfort from the last crumpled tissue Hear this poem read by Debbie Strange Read the poetry of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange One and Three Line Haiku From Christina Nguyen
 Christina Nguyen
Haiku harvest moon pulling a weed from the empty garden amethyst dusk crosses the lake garden mint seemed like a good idea at the time the harbor seal's eyes gathering clouds broken pieces of robin's eggs postpartum depression Read the poetry of Christina Nguyen Read a profile of Christina Nguyen jacob erin-cilberto's Newest: "Zoom Zoom"
 jacob erin-cilberto
Zoom Zoom i was not going to write yet another poem about writer's block, but then, well i heard a poem blocks away revving its engine so loud the window of my mind shook in its loose frame and then i heard the roar of it approaching braced myself for the vision to go with the noise and finally there it was, driving past my house past my pen, past my thoughts passed me shifted gears, dropped a few words in liquidated form from the tailpipe revved again just to taunt me then sped off down the block to another block but kept me in writer's block shock shaking like my window as i started typing a poem about writer's block on my block still hearing that engine roaring a block away in the back of my mind. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto We Welcome Carey Rose O'Connell to VerseWrights
 Carey Rose O'Connell
The Feaster ☊ I am the individuality of five helically wrapped into the hologram of one I speak the voices exhaled by the stones and translate the songs of the sun I am the feaster I breathe energy and eat rising fear I am the feaster I bleed synergy and drink falling tears I am the feaster I walk in spirals and die with each step I am the feaster I love in sacral and translate our next I am the feaster Hear this poem read by Carey Rose O'Connell Carey Rose O'Connell resides in the American Southwest. She has written for a number of years, but her "calling" as a poet did not come until late in 2010. This change in her writing life inspired the launch of her website, The World Poetized, in early 2011. She constructs poetry in all styles, but enjoys sharing her inner musings first in free verse and then into a poetic form, often a variety of micropoetry. She has found a connection to this style, which is featured along with her photography in Snapshots, her recent self-published book. She is presently working on a new manuscript of her work, and will soon complete a compilation of her poetry readings to be entitled Walking Enchantment. Read. MD Friedman's Poem, "Finding My Own Moon"
 MD Friedman
Finding My Own Moon ☊ there is something in this skinny howl of coyote that juliennes the night as if it were a brick of dark chocolate something that chases its own tail in wild circles contagious with the joy of a dervish something in that slide up to the high howl and in the quivering sustain that follows that chills the blood and makes me stop whatever I am doing to find my own moon Hear this poem read by MD Friedman Read the poetry of MD Friedman Read a profile of MD Friedman We Welcome Poet Stephanie Brennan
 Stephanie Brennan
Memory Lane Her new coffee cup is matte black on the outside the inside is a beautiful porcelain of lime green the color of rice paddies three weeks old The particular shade of lime reminds her of the trip they took to Vietnam, years ago At a temple a dozen children wandered, begging their tiny hands palms up, pleaded eventually she handed one a few coins And all the rest of them cried real tears down their dirty cheeks and so she ran away having no more coins She sips that coffee and thinks how angry she’s been at her husband, for years It dawns on her why now that it’s the sound of those children crying that slams doors storms out of rooms raises her voice pleads with palms up Read the poetry of Stephanie Brennan Read a profile of Stephanie Brennan Stephanie Brennan has settled, at least for now, amidst redwoods and fog in northern California. She has a B.S. in Education, but never taught anyone anything. Instead she roamed the world, returning to the U.S. to work at a wide range of jobs, and then hurried off again to another far-flung destination. She’s been writing fiction for many years, some of which may be found at her blog: People Do Things With Their Lives. Only recently has she ventured into poetry where to her great surprise she finds calm, and now can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop. She started a poetry blog, restraint unfettered, where she hopes to expand her micropoetry into longer pieces. Read. Laura Madeline Wiseman Is Now On VerseWrights
 Laura Madeline Wiseman
Weekend Naps After lunch had been put aside in plastic wrap and the radio, tucked under the cabinets, had lost the orange glow of its face, those hours were made lawless on the acre on the rise above the lake’s slate surface, like the dark forest that banked the river and the prairie soil once tilled for corn had a hold of time and could pause it, while you, with a preference for the wild life, reached for me beneath white sheets and quilts, on lace trimmed pillowcases, as the shadows stilled below the trees and the only sound anywhere for miles was the gentle creak of the springs as the tabby purred at the foot of the bed. Laura Madeline Wiseman is the author of nine collections of poetry, including the full-length book Sprung (San Francisco Bay Press, 2012) and the chapbooks Men and Their Whims (Writing Knights Press, 2013) and First Wife (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Her chapbook Stranger Still (Finishing Line Press, 2013) is forthcoming. She is the editor of Women Write Resistance: Poets Resist Gender Violence (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). She lives in Nebraska, where she teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Visit her Web site at www.lauramadelinewiseman.com to learn more about her and her work. Read. A New Poem From Natalie Keller
 Natalie Keller
What I Don't Understand About the Universe They say light is the absence of darkness and life is the absence of death, but how can love be the absence of hatred? How can love be anything less than a drawer full of handwritten letters from my shaking, unnerved hands to your crescent moon eyes, taking me in like a night above the water? How can love be a leap, a flick of a light-switch away from you being my entire world or just a stranger down the street? There are no simple things in this life, love alone being the most complicated thread - strung through us all until we hang like paper people on a wire, shaken until there is nothing left to us a but shells and a promise that something once lived in them. Read the poetry of Natalie Keller Read a profile of Natalie Keller |
Poet Gary Maxwell Is On VerseWrights
 Gary Maxwell
Calendars Have you ever mourned your way from Christmas to Epiphany, worn out by the weight of streaming shoppers darting madly through the maze of lights, partaking of the sacraments of savvy salesmen, easy marks for mercantile manipulators – priesthood of the golden calf? Have you smoked and screwed your way, Fat Tuesday clear to Pentecost, never coming up for air, pituitary pitted like a peach seed, keeping its own calendar, counting down the days until you drown, stone like, having skipped the sea and then, well spent, you’ll seek the bottom? Spare me all those Etch-A-Sketch constructed constellations, I’ll take fists of stars straight up, flung carelessly where velvet shows, most intimately, all the acts and outcomes of creation, having no regard for cardboard boxes, shipping crates or inventory tags we use to keep that Power in its place. Gary Maxwell was born in north central Kansas and lived there a grand total of six weeks before hitting the road for a life of wandering with his Air Force family. He started playing the guitar in high school and began writing songs shortly thereafter, but it wasn't until the final semester of a BS degree in Computer Science - 30+ years ago - that he started writing poetry (Shakespearean sonnets, to be precise). Gary divides his time between reading (his first love), writing, and keeping body and soul together as a day laborer on the information superhighway. He maintains an online presence at Fools' Blog, and tweets @yeoldefoole. He currently resides (appropriately) in Reading, Massachusetts - just north of Boston. Read. Two New Poems From Leslie Philibert
 Leslie Philibert
The Crystal Palace Is Burning You do not expect glass to burn; letting out the fire trapped in panes, white light having been caught before. But it does. They say you can see the flames as far away as Brighton. The end of an age. A widow in a frame of melted lead and cast iron. Flowers of smoke. A fallen bird, with ribs of a serious time. Walk Slowly At My Burial take the pace out of step; the black beetle crunches over gravel, a block of ice, stupid silence carried like a china cup nearly down, a ring of flowers, the first prize packed like a gift, six strong men are needed to carry my boxed bag of bones; flaps of skin and the old-man smell. Hold on. A moth in a lampshade couldn`t bruise its wings less; scared of the fall into cold loam. Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert Read a profile of Leslie Philibert New Poem: "Original Nassoon," from Janet
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A "Letter" From Kelli Russell Agodon Kelli Russell Agodon
Letter to an Absentee Landlord I write letters to God and answers don’t appear in words, but in blue jays and beetles, in hummingbird beaks. I’m spinning my wings and hungry. What God doesn’t say is, You are not your salary. Practice this a million times. God says through the honeysuckle: Allergy season is three weeks away. And sometimes: Your father died and you still feel that pain. No one wanted my father’s birdhouses. No one wanted years of soap on a rope. I donated it all to charities. I didn’t eat for weeks after losing my opening act, the comedian with wide ties and broken body. Now in my reflection, veins appear, lines where there were no lines before. I finger a prayer on a steamy bathroom mirror. Practice this a million times. I dust, fill a closet with linens, a comforter, pillows. What I really need is sleep, what I really need is the squawk of a blue jay to wake me up. Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon Poet Christopher Clark Now On VerseWrights
 Christopher Clark
The Train distracted with the burden of guys, sideburns caught up in cornered eyes of girls who sometimes play guitar their rucksacks stuffed side by side, across carriages where feet spread wide, angled exactly perpendicular. this is where I asked how many lies you could tell over potential courses, like sixty seconds in the potent manner of the most heavy of your forlorn lovers. You smiled, in reply - you only counted the backs that bled where scratched flaws fell like songs in heavy rafters, waiting to tiptoe out from covers, at some time like six in the morning. Christopher Clark is a London based poet currently entering the final stages of study at Goldsmiths, University of London. He has previously been featured in various publications such as Astronaut Zine and has worked on commissions, including The Royal Philharmonic Society. He enjoys mediocre 90's television and has a penchant for cheese. His website can be found at neveraboutyou.com and you can follow him @chriswillclark on Twitter. Read. Daniel Klawitter Joins VerseWrights' Pages
 Daniel Klawitter
The Fundamentalist The Scripture opens and a multitude of voices, assaults your ear. But you can only hear the one Voice. The one that echoes what you were taught: that God is truth, not love. And truth is a club to be used in war. So you shouldn't be surprised that it strikes me as being somewhat medieval, this small fortress with very high walls that you would die for. I prefer the cathedral, where there is more space for grace to overcome the evil that men do. Men like you, for whom certainty is a relief, prove only one thing: you don't really believe in God. You believe in belief. That's why any contradiction results in a fatal hemorrhage... a faith without a doubt, is a god in your own image. Daniel Klawitter lives in Denver, Colorado, where he has been an actor, a singer/lyricist for the indie folk-rock band Mining for Rain, and a union organizer for mental health care workers. His poems have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines both in the United States and in England, including: Colorado Life magazine, Focus, The Journal of South Texas English Studies, QuietMountain: New Feminist Essays, and Shot Glass Journal. He invites you to his website, where you can learn more about him. Read, Poet Robert King Joins VerseWrights' Pages
 Robert King
Another Bird Life, I seem to recall from a year of Anglo Saxon poetry in the old days, is like a bird flying out of the cold and dark in one door of the heroes’ mead-house through the smoke and warmth of fires, earth-smell, sweat-stench, roasted meat, and winging out the other door into another cold and dark. I remember this suddenly on the bank of a mountain stream watching an ouzel flutter into the shining, its body dipping and bobbing as it feeds under the push of the current, and then flutters out again to its rock: wet and satisfied. Robert King Lives in Greeley, Colorado, where he writes his poetry and directs the website for the Colorado Poets' Center. His first book, Old Man Laughing (Ghost Road Press), was a finalist for the 2008 Colorado Book Award in Poetry. His second volume, Some of These Days, was published this year by Conundrum Press. He recently won the Grayson Books Chapbook Competition with Rodin & Co. Read. Diana Matisz Is Now on VerseWrights
 Diana Matisz
I Wonder i thought about her today and wondered where she'd gone, that magical windswept creature braving the gusts of an ancestral spring on a two-tree hill i remembered that day and the ease with which she held herself once they could cajole her into actually looking at the camera clasping her own hands as proof of her comfort in her exotic singularity i recall she was a dreamer lost in worlds of knights on white stallions and sword bearing princesses in hennins easily distracted by leaves clouds the haunting poetry of a whip-poor-will she hadn't a care in the world that day not one there wasn't much of a past to remember and the lumbering weight of her future had yet to settle on her shoulders she was living in her moment, that day i thought about her today wanted to take her by the hand, run up the two-tree hill and hide away, just the two of us but i was too late by the time i'd found my way back to her, she'd gone ahead into our future, never once looking back for me Diana Matisz is a late-blooming writer and photographer. She was born and raised along the Allegheny River near Pittsburgh, PA, and it is the river which is a constant source of inspiration for both her poetry and her photography. Diana has published one book of poetry, two photography books, and is currently in the editing stages of a collaborative book with a colleague in Portugal. During this last summer, three of her photographs were selected for display at the Carnegie Museum of Art. She tweets @Diana605 and maintains a page on Facebook. She invites us to visit her main poetry site at Diana's Words, and her photography page, Life Through Blue Eyes, where she has found the means to combine her love of short form poetry with her photography, as well as her joy in collaborating with other writers. Read. "Hummingbird II," New From Barrett Dillon Hycner
 Barrett Dillon Hycner
Hummingbird II Bring on the young virgins Blood and sacrifice Missions of doom On the altar lay The machine in us Or are we the dream Metal gears Sweet grinding tears Drinking milk from the teat Like we were born from it We are all calves sucking Meager existence We are all drowning Mired in the snow Ribs showing No sustenance in weeks We are all burning With desires The opiate of our needs Turning toward heaven Like there is something there Breathing air Like someone cares Oblivious to the leaves Falling around our heads The masses sprawling Controlling our fears Can you feel the mob rising Can’t stop the dying Guns firing While the dancers gyrate Wish I could be a martyr Feel the pain of religion But a deep cold flows From the soul leading To the edge of the abyss Revolution’s kiss I can feel Rome threatened All the spies Murmuring curses To save our lives Because witches float And people spurn The god they believe in God, I want to be a martyr I want to die Sucking Existence Dry Read the poetry of Barrett Dillon Hycner Read a profile of Barrett Dillon Hycner New From Marsailidh Groat: "Ida"
 Marsailidh Groat
Ida I felt once a strength that people listened to. I held, for a second, a voice that carried me through skies and into Possibility. I was a child tasting champagne; I didn’t understand the taste, or that which comes Later, a bitterness, loss, obsession, fingers gnarled in Senescence, voice Forgotten. I saw once whole halls filled with understanding, not of my life but the purpose. Now, I speak only To give others voice. Read the poetry of Marsailidh Groat Read a profile of Marsailidh Groat The Newest Poem From Paul Mortimer
 Paul Mortimer
Sheep Spine ☊ Life and death, bleached on to this peaty moonscape. Here it is elemental. Moor and sun, a harsh unforgiving beauty. Knuckle on knuckle. Each notch etched clear in its whiteness. No wool. No flesh. No muscle. Picked clean. Purity laid bare. Simplicity of structure in the chaos of wilderness. This is where it all ends. Bone and earth. Hear this poem read by Paul Mortimer Read the poetry of Paul Mortimer Read a profile of Paul Mortimer "unprotected," A Poem From Marie Anzalone
 Marie Anzalone
unprotected The problem is my heart, you see. It just plain refuses to hard boil, no matter what I do to it. I have tried full immersion in roiling hot seas pickling spices, microwaved depravity, open flame, abdication of duty. And I tell you... after these decades, still if you pried off its shell, pricked it with your fork, sliced its midline with a sharpened knife- you would find the center liquescent, golden running into the shadows of your life's serving plate; and utterly unprotected. Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone Read a profile of Marie Anzalone Rowan Taw Gives us "The Wrong Winter"
 Rowan Taw
The Wrong Winter ☊ I wish for a winter walk. Not the cool, clear, sun-burning walk of the blue skied South, but the bladder tightening winter of the North, where... Blood brambles through hedgerowed fingers pricked with frost, leaves crack, twigs snap, echoing the rise and fall of brittle bone, as each breath smokes numb, chill-toed warnings. Branches, sparse stage, for a frugal Robin’s solitary song of seasonal poverty, bow humble, unlike.. Proud Ponga, warrior Nikau – always fully robed, leaving me.. ever-green for a British winter. (Ponga: New Zealand tree fern; Nikau: New Zealand’s only endemic palm tree.) Read Rowan Taw's poetry Read a profile of Rowan Taw Hear this poem read by Rowan Taw |
