We Welcome Poet Bernadette Geyer To VerseWrights
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
Cheryl Snell has a "Message from Home"
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
Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell
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William Fraker's "Moving Later This Year"
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
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
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"Strong," A New Poem From Michele Shaw
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
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Poet Kathleen Everett Is Now On VerseWrights
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
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
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
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Read about Danielle's latest book
A New Poem From 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
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"The Watchers," New From Louise Hastings
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
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"Stranded," A New Poem From Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
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 a breath…
But there you are…
Fingers of strength
Holding me tight..
My sacred light
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
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
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Poet Liam Porter Is Now On VerseWrights
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
“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
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
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Poet Eusebeia Philos Now on VerseWrights
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"
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,
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
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From Shan Ellis: "Hold your position"
Hold your position
Open mouthed, salivating,
Room spin, raw throat
spottled spittle depravity.
Clenched jaw, head high
Formidably uncrossing pale legs
juncture and crevice
sickly remnants of whiskey
Listless kiss regrets,
Unfurling luscious betrayal wafts
Open mouthed, salivating;
Read the poetry of Shan Ellis
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Poet Robert King's "At Fifteen"
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
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Poet Rowan Taw's "The wrong vehicle..."
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
Real men have chainsaws,
and women bake and love their..
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
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
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
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)
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Maryann Maglangit Joins The Poets On VerseWrights
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?
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
Landscapes of the Mind
We imitate the Masters
based on a poem,
Capturing the feeling of what is underneath
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
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
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Lupe Eyde-Tucker Joins the Poets on VerseWrights
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.
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.