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Tweetspeak Poetry acquires some poetry for Every Day Poems. The best way to get your work in front of our editors is to participate in our Monday prompts. Note that ourVerseWrights journal is no longer accepting submissions, as the final publication was December 31, 2017.
Learn more about just some of what Tweetspeak offers our poets and readers.
The Opener...
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Sejla Srna
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Father Grey stains under eyelashes; faster than humming birds you shake in your sleep, clench fists full of nothing, bite lips lacking kisses, curl toes, twist guts, gnaw nails. There’s a crack in the door from kicks of misplaced anger, passionate touches from knuckles, and games of catch with wine bottles. You throw me resentment, confusion, repressed memories, lost childhood friends, war scars, lust for death, and a mother selling lies. I forgive you. Read the poetry of Sejla Srna Read a profile of Sejla Srna |
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Claire Scott Suggests Writing At Home
Claire Scott
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Charon at Starbucks hunched over his laptop haggard, hairy feverish eyes an oar smeared with seaweed propped by his chair said he was posting on Craig’s list bored with dealing with the dead checking under swollen tongues no plastic gloves provided said he’d cut a deal with Hades to perform one last job to ferry a writer who scrawls each morning at Starbucks coffee shop seduced by an illusion of skill he wraps his cape around his shoulders picks up his dripping oar glances back as if to memorize my face Read the poetry of Claire Scott Read a profile of Claire Scott |
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Amauri Solon With A Vision Of Life
Amauri Solon
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Under Construction And then there was earth, sun, wind and rain Under the fertile soil coiled thousands of iron wires and pain And then there was me, you, them and hunger Under the dry ground hundreds of starving hounds howled And then there was clay, bricks, stones and anger Under the roof people clung to each other trying hard to survive And then there was space and time and void Under the sky birds and reptiles fly aimlessly And then there was just me, newly born and a storm Under my head body, arms and legs thorn bleeding And then there was nothing more but my inner core Under the surface a furnace ever burning coal and fire Nothing more to be said nor heard or felt Under construction it all fled steadly ahead Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon |
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Ryan Quinn Flanagan's Take
On Baseball Strategy
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
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Fever Pitch The closer went down with a migraine so it was fastball by committee. The starter trying to go as long as he could. Everyone else on a pitch count. Trying to stay ahead of the count from the mound. And the batters on the other side were instructed to wait on each pitch as if waiting on a bus. To extend the count with runners in scoring position. It was to be a matter of attrition. Each trying to outlast their first sexual experience twenty-fold. As the crowd waved their foam hands and bought up ballpark dogs. In a way the pooches down at the local kennel could only dream of. Read the poetry of Ryan Quinn Flanagan Read a profile of Ryan Quinn Flanagan |
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Featured From Poetry/Aloud...
 Amy Billone
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Featured Short Poem...
What Isn't Mine
my hand
separating pages
into holy moments
my bosom
the waiting cradle
of what he meant to say
my exhale
the collusion
in letting go
~ Jessica L. Davis
my hand
separating pages
into holy moments
my bosom
the waiting cradle
of what he meant to say
my exhale
the collusion
in letting go
~ Jessica L. Davis
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Mikels Skele: We Take
The Blows And Move On
Mikels Skele
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Who The morning grew clear toward mid-day, no clouds, just a west wind to stir your memory. How you thought truth was in you, how you swore allegiance to companionship, how you lived in the night and passed judgment on the light, a light you rejected, a payback, a settling, a comeuppance, how you failed to notice, even then, that you hadn’t the status to be rejected, how you slowly saw, slowly, grudgingly, that rejection was neither of you nor for you, and how little it mattered. Later, you try to start over, still wearing the skin you were born in, all those scars the only evidence. Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele |
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Ria Meade
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The Shifting of Blues
I relied on that view of the bay.
I relied on that bench to hold me,
was in love with watching
the sun's shifting of blues.
Remained too late one night on the bench.
The sun never performed for me again.
I am caught behind a one-way mirror.
It denies me the reflection of my father's blue eyes,
everything I learned through them.
Teach myself to catch inner lights,
prey to be followed to it’s source.
Without a prayer to meet that view
behind the mirror with its shifting of blues,
lives my terror and its truth.
Wind became a friend in my darkness.
Her passage over fine hairs awakens and reassures.
I am still here!
I choose the dance of the rocker on my porch.
Choose evening breezes to calm panic,
wait for the night wind's friendship.
Rock—to spark an inner light.
Fingers, spread over my face, reflect me.
Thirty years without colors blue.
Read the poetry of Ria Meade
Read a profile of Ria Meade
I relied on that view of the bay.
I relied on that bench to hold me,
was in love with watching
the sun's shifting of blues.
Remained too late one night on the bench.
The sun never performed for me again.
I am caught behind a one-way mirror.
It denies me the reflection of my father's blue eyes,
everything I learned through them.
Teach myself to catch inner lights,
prey to be followed to it’s source.
Without a prayer to meet that view
behind the mirror with its shifting of blues,
lives my terror and its truth.
Wind became a friend in my darkness.
Her passage over fine hairs awakens and reassures.
I am still here!
I choose the dance of the rocker on my porch.
Choose evening breezes to calm panic,
wait for the night wind's friendship.
Rock—to spark an inner light.
Fingers, spread over my face, reflect me.
Thirty years without colors blue.
Read the poetry of Ria Meade
Read a profile of Ria Meade
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Amy Soricelli, Allison, And
A Long Ago Christmas
Amy Soricelli
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The First Noel Allison from high school had a paper smile torn at the edges- ran for a bus against the windy round corner of her jumbled-up neighborhood. Black eyed boots and three lonely brothers. I ate cookies at her house one soggy morning before holiday break. Her mother swaying around the kitchen to Frank Sinatra, the tossed family mail covering crumbs on the thin plastic tablecloth. No one in her small kitchen dreamed of fancy cars on the highway or globes spinning; soaring planes against wide open skies. They were trapped between countries, their language getting lost on the rim of a glass. Her father studied me hard then barreled down the stairs returning hours later with a small Christmas tree - slanted and confused he held it up like a prized fish. She told me once - as she puffed her Marlboro lights in the deep tunnel of our high school staircase - that no one listens to her screams; she could crawl her way out of a cloud and had eyes in the back of her head. Allison from high school pulled me with her into the top shelf of the hallway closet to search for stars, glass balls - long tubes of snow. Made from detergent and baking soda they sat in a marked box trapped like time and stuffed with tissue. We spent hours tossing tinsel, stretching ribbons - and when each skinny branch was somehow given a fix - placed it on a covered box. We sat holding hands looking at the shiny cones of silver; candy canes hanging their necks dangling like question marks. Look at what we made Allison said. Look at what comes from nothing. Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli Read a profile of Amy Soricelli |
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Stefanie Bennett On
Past Youth And Style
Stefanie Bennett
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Jeunesse Dorée - 1969 Today, or sometime in the near future, You will be gone. Winter is already Drawing her cauldron in. You lie beneath the bed cover Of fur – of love – assailed By your dream spirit. I know, you’ll rise... and... but it is Enough that we have shared Those tidy sins and word pronouncements. On days colder than this I will have Your resources to draw upon. Also, you will take what you need of mine. The jewel of caring, my petulant one, Cannot be fixed – not at any price, For, if at a moment’s notice, I should See you displayed in some other window, I will not be sad or displaced. Once, you entered my chamber. Because of that It is – far brighter. Read the poetry of Stefanie Bennett Read a profile of Stefanie Bennett |