Archive 4
October, 2013
We Welcome Poet Bernadette Geyer To VerseWrights
 Bernadette Geyer
Heat Lightning The nights it happened, we’d set up chairs in the back yard, watch the skies instead of the black & white TV handed down from our grandfather when he upgraded to a console. We bugged our eyes as wide as we could, tried hard not to blink for fear we’d miss one of the flashes outlining the clouds that separated us from the stars, the clouds that acted as a screen against which we could watch this display of nature’s fireworks. Foolish as pups, we tried to predict where the light would flare next looked there instead of where the flash last occurred, because we’d been told that lightning never strikes the same place twice. Even now, I find it just as hard to witness radiance as it happens, just as hard to stop myself from trying. Bernadette Geyer’s first full-length collection, The Scabbard of Her Throat, was selected by Cornelius Eady as the 2013 Hilary Tham Capital Collection title, published by The Word Works in early 2013. She received a 2010 Strauss Fellowship from the Arts Council of Fairfax County and regularly serves as an instructor at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland. Geyer’s poems have appeared widely in journals including Oxford American, Poet Lore, The Midwest Quarterly, North American Review, American Journal of Nursing, and on Verse Daily. Her poems have also been featured on public transit buses through the Moving Words Program in Arlington County, Virginia. In July 2013, Geyer relocated to Berlin, Germany, where she works as a freelance writer and editor. Read. E. Michael Desilets' newest: "Time with
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Cheryl Snell has a "Message from Home"
 Cheryl Snell
Message from Home All that August the house seesawed between heat and wet. Bedraggled relations in souvenir shirts wondered if they’d brought enough clean underwear. We exchanged gifts earmarked for the junk drawer. The front door swelled shut and I cased the window like a thief. They split into cliques, filling blackout hours with clannish grievance. I wondered why until my head ached. When mornings cooled and we recognized the coffee steam for what it was, we divided snapshots, reminiscing already, energized by the idea of parting. In the wake of kissed air and reconfigured goodbye, I stood at the door waving, long past the hour that would have them turning back, frantic with apology; and rushing into the house, convinced they had left something precious there, something they would recognize if they ever saw it again. Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell Read a profile of Cheryl Snell William Fraker's "Moving Later This Year"
 William Fraker
Moving Later This Year The house’s first owner suffered from allergies, grew roses without aroma. I trim wild strawberries, clinging to the porch’s first step. They do not get to flower or bear berries, unlike irises thriving beside the house. The flowing creek behind the house attracts small rodents, barred owls, deer, raccoon, and opossum. Sun streams through sky lights in the living room. Upstairs balconies, where a couple of adult children smoked years ago, hang over a forest. The family laughed, slept, and ate in this house. We lighted fires in winter, kept company, celebrated holidays and birthdays. Walls hold tears and laughter. Stairs know the footfalls of each of us. Bathrooms reflect individual images. Family pictures in the hallway, like furniture, wait for re-location. How will three cats and our dog adapt? What parts of us will get broken, no longer carried with us? Read the poetry of William Fraker Read a profile of William Fraker "Strong," A New Poem From Michele Shaw
 Michele Shaw
Strong he stands in shredded forests the flap of wings merging into grit-filled winds black funnel clouds, gathering useless against iron love beaks barb and jab, live arrows, yet not piercing invincible, is he, or invisible shrouded by a promise hurts stealth as sand seek to invade grains tailgating unseen, burrowing rubbing midst the hope of unwatched cracks and forgotten fissures common pests romping at will, delight at open veins only to travel false paths unable to breach steel of father, protector, champion Read the poetry of Michele Shaw Read a profile of Michele Shaw Poet Kathleen Everett Is Now On VerseWrights
 Kathleen Everett
The Moon Makes Me Laugh The moon makes me laugh. Her face pink-gold with exertion Pushing past the horizon, Filling the constellations, To rise in her nights journey. As she climbs, she prays in the voice of my mother, “I see the moon, the moon sees me. God bless the moon and God bless me.” The moon makes me laugh. Her bright face silver with light, Gracefully easing into space, Moving in celestial dance. As she rises, she sings In the voice of my father, “Don’t the moon look lonesome, shining through the trees. Don’t the moon look lonesome, when your baby packs up to leave.” The moon makes me laugh. From the dark bedroom My sleepy voiced husband calls, What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed. We can’t, I answer. We have moon sickness. As the dogs and I moon-bathe, Naked on the back porch. Kathleen Gresham Everett is a writer and poet living in the Missouri Ozarks with her husband, a landscape designer. Having attended universities in Texas and Missouri and having lived in many areas of the United States from New Jersey to Colorado, her love for her adopted region speaks through much of her work. Her first book of poetry, The Course of Our Seasons, was published in 2010. Several of her poems were included in The dVerse Anthology, Voices of Contemporary World Poetry, edited by Frank Watson and published by Plum White Press, 2013. Everett writes on her blog, the course of our seasons and can be found on Twitter @everettpoetry. She is currently editing her memoir, The Last Really Good Shack, and is working on a second book of poetry. Read. Two Short Poems From Danielle Favorite
 Danielle Favorite
New Moon This night is deciduous and I am lost in Ursa Minor with a dead flower, alive with fire. I want to tease my name from the lips of every star that pulses within your heart-- you, with the blue bandana, you know who you are. Let me be the voice Susie's pool You stole the stars from my breath so I sank to the bottom of the pool and listened for rain. The moon is naked with pewter; it drips into my heartbeat, slows it down until you pull me to the surface, like a star to the earth. Read the poems of Danielle Favorite Read a profile of Danielle Favorite Read about Danielle's latest book A New Poem From Roseville Nidea
 Roseville Nidea
Brishma's Bed of Arrows It seems you practiced asceticism: stood in one toe in the snow for seven and ten years to learn the secret of my death. Then there, one day, you struck me With your hundred thousand arrows In such full accuracy, No space in my body Thicker than two inches Was not pierced; I fell from where I stood, Lying fully supported by The sharp-edged shafts, with No part of my body touching the earth-- And, I remain lying, Alive but dead. Read the poetry of Roseville Nidea Read a profile of Roseville Nidea "The Watchers," New From Louise Hastings
 Louise Hastings
The Watchers As darkness falls the sky is shot with red and here is where the wood thins out, opens into a field of souls, and all that’s good and gentle bleeds off through the night. There is no hope in this and they come to burn the dead hidden by a sweep of cloud and a fading moon. We watch to witness whatever truth there is, and wait for morning to weep across the trees, raw as ripped out roots. Read the poetry of Louise Hastings Read a profile of Louise Hastings "Stranded," A New Poem From Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
 Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
Stranded In every quiet moment You are there, Twirled in my heart… A single thread of music Through all the chaos, All the noise and pounding A single strand of notes Barely audible Barely a breath… But there you are… Fingers of strength Holding me tight.. My serenity My sacred light Stranded within Wandering throughout all I am Every moment feels Like the tenderness of a kiss A brush of lips to skin Heart to soul Eyes–quieting to be held by yours Every moment Has a gentle reserve Washing through it Passion sitting on the edge Slowly eroded into us Twirled away quick as it fell Stranded within us Faint musical interludes Of love, of light Read the poetry of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Read a profile of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Poet Liam Porter Is Now On VerseWrights
 Liam Porter
The Ploughed Field Today you were cut deep, sliced open from end to end, and everything was suddenly turned upside down. Torn asunder, you bled fresh brown into yourself until you glinted again in the September sun. Overhead, on the wires, the black music score of birds silently played out the evening, and the light of the tractor flashed amber and warned of the winter days yet to come. Liam Porter is an Irish writer from Co. Donegal who, after years of working in local newspapers as a reporter and editor has recently rediscovered the joy of creative writing. He has had poems published in several anthologies, newspapers and other publications, including The Rake (University College Dublin), Poetry Now, Fire in the Heart (International Library of Poetry), and The Derry Journal. He has set himself the challenge of posting a poem a day on his blog during this present year. Read. We Welcome Poet Gary Metras To Our Pages
 Gary Metras
Destinations “Sometimes the most real things you can’t see.” —Chief Oren Lyons of the Onondaga Engine noise in the sky above the fields where I loaf, reading, then a helicopter on a straight path to somewhere grows larger and louder and leaves a wake of angry air wasting minutes. Afterward the white and gray clouds resume their play while in front of me a dragonfly, as large as a hummingbird, hovers before darting around this field where it zigs to random patterns of mosquitoes hatching and rising to their deaths. A hawk’s faint cry splits the meadow’s new calm. I put the book down and search for the brown streak circling against the dark mountain. Another cry. Another. The neighbor’s telephone rings. They are in New Jersey all this week. Ring and cry. Then silence. I pick up the book. August continues. Gary Metras is the author of Two Bloods: Fly Fishing Poems, winner of the Split Oak Press Chapbook Award 2010, Francis D'Asissi 2008, Finishing Line Press 2008, selected as Recommended by the Massachusetts Center of the Book 2009, along with thirteen other chapbooks and three books of poems. His poems, essays and reviews have appeared in such journals as Blueline, Boston Review of Books, Connecticut Poetry Review, Istanbul Literary Review, Poetry, Poetry East, Salzburg Poetry Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Small Press Review. His newest book, Captive in the Here, is due this fall from Cervena Barva Press. He is a retired educator having taught English and writing on the high school and college levels. He is the printer and editor of Adastra Press, which specializes in hand crafted limited edition chapbooks. Read. A New Poem From Poet Samantha Reynolds
 Samantha Reynolds
You are more than a sweaty turnip I take offence on your behalf to what they focus on as you press your way week by week into my skin like this week one website compared you to a turnip and made note of your sweat glands and why the term rump like you are a cut of steak am I the only one who wonders if you dream yet and what about your amygdala a word so beautiful it could be your name that almond-shaped slice of your mind where your memories nest will I feel it when it grows collecting your slippery thoughts when you dream inside of me do I get to watch. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Rea a profile of Samantha Reynolds |
Poet Eusebeia Philos Now on VerseWrights
 Eusebeia Philos
Neighbor Better change your ways, I hear the Teacher say, when we question who our neighbor is, not just the dude in the pew who sings like you, off key and all, or professors and their obedient sheep tuned to the classroom sermon, all those in faithful repetition, appear alike, sound the same, uniform in the outrageous dress of the same tribe as you, no that won't do, get up and cross the road that splits your comfort from your disgust, and do for others what you do for yours, clean up their bloody mess, stash a few bucks in their pocket, and promise to check back till they're on their feet and ready to be your neighbor, too. Eusebeia Philos was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. Poetry and its ability to create an emotional experience from words and ideas has always fascinated him. Many of his long form poems can be found on his Website. You can also find him sharing micropoetry on Twitter @Eusebeia_Philos. Eusebeia received his B.A. in Philosophy (with a certificate in Bioethics) from Cleveland State University. He resides in the rolling farmlands of Northeastern Ohio. Read. Lupe Eyde-Tucker's Poem "First"
 Lupe Eyde-Tucker
First ☊ It was in a dream in a low-light room in a box of matches from a pocket It was a rapid friction a flare of passion reflected in dark eyes It was in a dream I sometimes tell myself where nothing I touched could touch me back It was in my skin in the evidence of the scars, the burns, the scratches In a crying moment in a chosen fashion that a game of arms struck like matches in the beating heart of a dream pleasure & pain are the same muscle. Hear this poem read by Lupe Eyde-Tucker Read the poetry of Lupe Eyde-Tucker Read a profile of Lupe Eyde-Tucker From Shan Ellis: "Hold your position"
 Shan Ellis
Hold your position Open mouthed, salivating, unforgiven words. Passed in silence. Room spin, raw throat spottled spittle depravity. Clenched jaw, head high undermined. Formidably uncrossing pale legs juncture and crevice yearns. Broken glass sickly remnants of whiskey dribbles half-heartedly. Listless kiss regrets, double-jeopardy jumped. Unfurling luscious betrayal wafts ruffling, tempting. Open mouthed, salivating; discarded. Thirty-four. Read the poetry of Shan Ellis Read a profile of Shan Ellis Poet Robert King's "At Fifteen"
 Robert King
At Fifteen ☊ At the first hard shock, a first love overturned in the instant of a letter, I was burned by the hurt, if not in the heart, that tight affectionate knot, then in the chest, an ache swelling up. That night I lay in bed watching the rain burst over our small troubled trees and cried, mostly from pain but partly, that young, in tune with the storm’s torrent, until I stopped. But then, wanting back that bitter pang, I counted up every lost thing until I broke out again, glorying in my new sadness, delighted to feel it, to feel, my small life as large as the worldly rain. Hear this poem read by Robert King Read the poetry of Robert King Read a profile of Robert King Poet Rowan Taw's "The wrong vehicle..."
 Rowan Taw
The wrong vehicle for this town ☊ It was summer in a new town, in a new house, in a new life. A township full of conservative community sentiments. Real men have chainsaws, and women bake and love their.. horses. I had my hundred year old roof replaced by a local man. With weeks of work and weeks of tea drinking out on my shaded verandah, he was an easy going mate, we would chat about.. nothing in particular, my intellect relaxed, I felt grounded in his company. If I drove the right vehicle, he’d have invited me to join the lads for a beer, and a game of cards. But it’s a small town, old social rules still apply - I drive the wrong vehicle, with my smackable rear bumper, and my front airbags permanently inflated. I hid inside the house the day his wife called on him. I feared my own non-existent threat of being an apparently single, liberal lady, of independent means. I hid..because..all I wanted was a friendly smile, and for him to fix my gutter five years from then. See this poem read aloud (by Paul Mortimer) Read the poetry of Rowan Taw Read a profile of Rowan Taw Maryann Maglangit Joins The Poets On VerseWrights
 Maryann Maglangit
San Antonio A white moth rustles beneath the old wooden bench at 5 a.m. where you used to have morning coffee with me, while overhead is a signboard that reads 'Welcome to San Antonio!' It swings back and forth like a childhood sweetheart waving outside my window. How many sunrises until the paint peels? How many sunsets until the letters fade? For now I guess my only choice is to wait with my cup of coffee on a chipped wooden seat. Just like any other morning, only colder now. Maryann Maglangit lives and works in the Philippine’s Queen City of the South, the country’s oldest city since the Spanish regime. She attended the University of San Jose-Recolletos receiving a Bachelor of Science in Computer Engineering and later studied at Southwestern University. She has been writing from the age of three, a passion which continued into her adult life. After college she put aside her interest in writing to climb the corporate ladder as a marketing analyst for an American architectural company. She later became a community service representative for a US based global eCommerce company. The new position gave her plenty of time to write and in 2011 she renewed her passion for writing. Her current project is a lesbian themed novel entitled Poison Ivy. Read. We Welcome Wasentha Young to VerseWrights
 Wasentha Young
Landscapes of the Mind We imitate the Masters based on a poem, Capturing the feeling of what is underneath Auspicious pines Immortal peaches sitting among rustling bamboo and banana leaves The strength is the brushstroke of the mind and image coming together like two waterfalls, becoming the feeling. The changing shapes whisper like clouds cradling mountaintops. Empty space filled with chi, Imaginary journey for the soul forgetting worldly desire, We nourish our spirits. Wasentha Young has been involved in the “arts” since her early teens. A native New Yorker, city life has offered her many opportunities for creative expression. She has written about, painted, and studied Eastern health arts. More recently she has become a writer of short stories, children books, and poetry; she is a mosaic artist; and a master of Tai Chi and Qigong (Energy Work). Most of her writing has been published in national and local magazines and newsletters such as Qi Journal, Tai Chi Journal, Natural Awakenings and Crazy Wisdom Journal. She has also won the University of Michigan "Excellence in Patient Education" (2006) for a series of children’s books focused on cultural diversity in different models of physical activity, entitled Move Your Body. Her poetry and short stories have been publically read and performed in bookstores in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, NM as well as The Ark in Ann Arbor, MI. She maintains a website at www.wasentha.com, and invites your visit. Read. "A Vocabulary," from Julie Brooks Barbour
 Julie Brooks Barbour
A Vocabulary My grandmother recited recipes from memory. She wrote nothing down. Even when I offered pen and paper, she insisted on speaking. Ingredients and measurements might settle into my memory if she repeated them often enough, like a spell. I refused that vocabulary. It was like science, and I only liked science when it pertained to animals and their habitats. I adopted the language of stories, took the pen and paper I’d offered my grandmother and wrote my way out of the kitchen, away from boiling water and baking temperatures. Outside, I dug old bottles from the dirt in the chicken house, dusted the soil off their curved bodies and traced the raised letters; I plucked stamen and stigma from passion flowers until they became dancers I twirled between my fingers. The sun’s heat could bear down on me but not the heat of the kitchen or its rules. My grandmother never stopped trying to lure me in, offering banana pudding or cherry cobbler at the end of a school day, waiting to tell me when I finished of cups measured or how much fruit to slice but I slipped out the screen door after cleaning my bowl, my only work in that room. Read the poetry of Julie Brooks Barbour Read a profile of Julie Brooks Barbour Lupe Eyde-Tucker Joins the Poets on VerseWrights
 Lupe Eyde-Tucker
August This night is a fuzzy, fleshy peach which I aim to take a bite of just knowing that it won’t be long before I am covered in sticky, sweet juice dripping from my fingers running down my arms. This night is a sultry dream a far-away jazz tune brought by a wayward breeze laid at my feet an offering, a promise I intend to keep. This night is ripe. Lupe Eyde-Tucker was born on the shores of the Navesink River in Red Bank, NJ. She is a wife and the mother of five. In her early twenties she began writing as a stringer for the Asbury Park Press, and went on to become a freelance writer. After receiving her B.A. in Business Economics, she found her life’s passion in education, having taught literature, language arts, and economics at the middle school, high school, and community college levels. Currently, with her husband, she publishes several online e-magazines, including SailMiami.com and HomeschoolingFlorida.com. Poetry has been a source of great joy and inspiration throughout her life. She shares her poems on her poetry blog, Not Enough Poetry and other writing on her website entitled TheNewJerseyGirl “I just want to inspire, and be inspired,” she says. “Teach a little, and learn a lot.” Read. |
