Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
Infinite feints
for a lane
to go driving.
Still there’s
no opening.
Jump shot
pumped from afar
spits in the net,
sole sound.
The bucket is made,
but the ball
the ball is still bouncing.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Pages
▼
Friday, September 30, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
It will trickle down
Contributor: Julia Hones
- -
It will trickle down
according to his plan,
where his connections are,
straight in the direction of the ones
that are blind to atrocities and crimes.
It will trickle down,
believe it,
just like a magnet
toward the ones that can align with dust,
or like a bomb encroaching
those who disagree.
Down and up again,
akin to a boomerang
leaving no trace behind,
and there will be no need to search:
It is his right to hide the filthy parts.
He will be celebrated all the same.
- - -
Julia Hones's works have appeared in a vast array of magazines and anthologies, both in print and online. Her poetry has been shortlisted in various contests. She published her first poetry collection, "She Opened the Cage" in 2016.
- -
It will trickle down
according to his plan,
where his connections are,
straight in the direction of the ones
that are blind to atrocities and crimes.
It will trickle down,
believe it,
just like a magnet
toward the ones that can align with dust,
or like a bomb encroaching
those who disagree.
Down and up again,
akin to a boomerang
leaving no trace behind,
and there will be no need to search:
It is his right to hide the filthy parts.
He will be celebrated all the same.
- - -
Julia Hones's works have appeared in a vast array of magazines and anthologies, both in print and online. Her poetry has been shortlisted in various contests. She published her first poetry collection, "She Opened the Cage" in 2016.
"Lost within the words I never said."
Contributor: Frank Ferone
- -
When I was strong,
I didn't have to worry about
who'd come along,
To pick me up off the ground.
I'm all alone; yet I move on,
and sing my song.
When no one else is around.
I just can't help,
cant seem to figure it out.
Yet time goes on.
Am I really just kidding myself?
Scorned for desperately grasping at the flame.
You were lost deep within
the notes of every song I sang.
- - -
- -
When I was strong,
I didn't have to worry about
who'd come along,
To pick me up off the ground.
I'm all alone; yet I move on,
and sing my song.
When no one else is around.
I just can't help,
cant seem to figure it out.
Yet time goes on.
Am I really just kidding myself?
Scorned for desperately grasping at the flame.
You were lost deep within
the notes of every song I sang.
- - -
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
San Xavier del Bac to Summerhaven
Contributor: James Robert Rudolph
- -
Still as yellow as ever but
the sun swoons in January and the cold
blushes cactus plum, chilly bruises.
To summer then to green palo verde trees
bark the color of frog skin they sift
the night with bitty leaves the gauzy drape
of a modern dancer.
Spiky-headed date palms, punks
lithe or gangly carry their fruit on sticks
like hobo satchels cacao colored achy sweet
on the tooth a brown sugar chew.
Longhorn cattle dull in dry pastures of
dirty blond grass edging grapes that
suffer for the wine prayer beads of grapes
calcified by fallen bones purified in
the eye of a scourging sun.
Mt. Lemmon saguaros on its foothills arms up
a field army of surrendering Gumbies
on top a winged aerie over brown canyon
shadowed canyon to ringing mountains
erupted and holed with outlaw hideouts through
high passes hard by palisades to
a great south desert of burr and dust
with white plaster missions roseate
with martyrs’ blood, frescoes of martyrs
where old sins cauterize in the fires
of expiation and this blue burning sky.
- - -
James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He believes in old-style magical realism, that inspired by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the high desert, and the deep, broad sky of the American mountain west. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, Black Heart Magazine, and Poetry Super Highway, among others.
- -
Still as yellow as ever but
the sun swoons in January and the cold
blushes cactus plum, chilly bruises.
To summer then to green palo verde trees
bark the color of frog skin they sift
the night with bitty leaves the gauzy drape
of a modern dancer.
Spiky-headed date palms, punks
lithe or gangly carry their fruit on sticks
like hobo satchels cacao colored achy sweet
on the tooth a brown sugar chew.
Longhorn cattle dull in dry pastures of
dirty blond grass edging grapes that
suffer for the wine prayer beads of grapes
calcified by fallen bones purified in
the eye of a scourging sun.
Mt. Lemmon saguaros on its foothills arms up
a field army of surrendering Gumbies
on top a winged aerie over brown canyon
shadowed canyon to ringing mountains
erupted and holed with outlaw hideouts through
high passes hard by palisades to
a great south desert of burr and dust
with white plaster missions roseate
with martyrs’ blood, frescoes of martyrs
where old sins cauterize in the fires
of expiation and this blue burning sky.
- - -
James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He believes in old-style magical realism, that inspired by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the high desert, and the deep, broad sky of the American mountain west. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, Black Heart Magazine, and Poetry Super Highway, among others.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Lazy Wakening
Contributor: E.S. Wynn
- -
Few feelings
are so sweet
as waking softly
to your scent
to the touch, the warmth
of you, all tangled
in sheets, in me
and smiling
while subtle sunlight
slips across and dapples
sun-honeyed skin
and stirs us
to start our day
to start slowly
savoring the silence
the succulent stillness
of a world yet to wake.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"
- -
Few feelings
are so sweet
as waking softly
to your scent
to the touch, the warmth
of you, all tangled
in sheets, in me
and smiling
while subtle sunlight
slips across and dapples
sun-honeyed skin
and stirs us
to start our day
to start slowly
savoring the silence
the succulent stillness
of a world yet to wake.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"
Monday, September 26, 2016
An Intermingling
Contributor: Maggie Beck
- -
Mix me up
mix up this life, mix
up, muddy all the old
photographs
Get them out
of order
Make a new
picture out of them
Here is my mother's
Eye
Here is my father's
Smile
My sister's ear
Very little of me.
- - -
- -
Mix me up
mix up this life, mix
up, muddy all the old
photographs
Get them out
of order
Make a new
picture out of them
Here is my mother's
Eye
Here is my father's
Smile
My sister's ear
Very little of me.
- - -
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Bristles
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
Creature with an underside
made of moving parts,
bristles make patterns in sand
spelling words only animals
know, we sell their shallow
outlines in shops, ringing bells
signaling our entrance, a quick
swipe and we can take one home
without an idea of how it looks
when living and mobile.
- - -
- -
Creature with an underside
made of moving parts,
bristles make patterns in sand
spelling words only animals
know, we sell their shallow
outlines in shops, ringing bells
signaling our entrance, a quick
swipe and we can take one home
without an idea of how it looks
when living and mobile.
- - -
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Monsanto Man, Retired
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
You think it's easy,
embalming bodies
in these nightmares
I have every night,
bodies a vulture
wouldn't touch,
bodies rotting
decades later
in the afterglow
of Agent Orange,
bodies found in
villages and fields
in Vietnam where
I have never been
except in nightmares.
I'm Monsanto Man,
chemist nonpareil,
retired now,
but working hard
embalming bodies
for eternity
in nightmares
I know now
will never end.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
You think it's easy,
embalming bodies
in these nightmares
I have every night,
bodies a vulture
wouldn't touch,
bodies rotting
decades later
in the afterglow
of Agent Orange,
bodies found in
villages and fields
in Vietnam where
I have never been
except in nightmares.
I'm Monsanto Man,
chemist nonpareil,
retired now,
but working hard
embalming bodies
for eternity
in nightmares
I know now
will never end.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Sunflower
Contributor: Riley Coffey
- -
Daddy grew me
in the ripe old garden
then absconded
Letting me bake
in mother's sun
My petals once glorious
gradually wilted
until a kind sir
came to uproot me
No one to speak for me
I went his way
then grew old enough
to put up a fight.
- - -
- -
Daddy grew me
in the ripe old garden
then absconded
Letting me bake
in mother's sun
My petals once glorious
gradually wilted
until a kind sir
came to uproot me
No one to speak for me
I went his way
then grew old enough
to put up a fight.
- - -
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Wood Work
Contributor: Angelica Fuse
- -
well look
what crawls out
with just a little
smoke and fire
that nasty piece
of ourselves we hide
of a sudden
bubbles up
a rotten apple
on the surface
revealed by
slight provocation.
- - -
- -
well look
what crawls out
with just a little
smoke and fire
that nasty piece
of ourselves we hide
of a sudden
bubbles up
a rotten apple
on the surface
revealed by
slight provocation.
- - -
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Moving Out
Contributor: Liam Strong
- -
for the culled heart. for the inheritance bequeathed
your patient hand. for the clumped patches of grass we fall to,
sandy loam laced into jean and flannel. for the night
we watched amber snow dwindle from downtown radiation.
let’s move back in to where we got kicked out.
your last night there was mine as well, that house
eviscerated of belonging, where we’ve been replaced,
and new furniture with a new family has been transplanted.
i grew up with you in a basement, covering our favorite
pop-punk songs on miniscule bass amp and riveted cymbals.
she was there, and every she that came after. this is for
everyone that opened the always unlocked door.
this is for you and how we could have returned life
to your home. for your empty wallet and churning stomach.
for your forgotten drum set, the burned posters,
the unwatched dvds, the sold video games.
for the scrounging of lifeblood from shag carpet,
icy cement, and the searching after placing home
into the backseat of your new one.
- - -
Liam Strong is a poet from Traverse City, Michigan. You can find his work in the NMC Magazine, Dunes Review, and Poets' Night Out.
- -
for the culled heart. for the inheritance bequeathed
your patient hand. for the clumped patches of grass we fall to,
sandy loam laced into jean and flannel. for the night
we watched amber snow dwindle from downtown radiation.
let’s move back in to where we got kicked out.
your last night there was mine as well, that house
eviscerated of belonging, where we’ve been replaced,
and new furniture with a new family has been transplanted.
i grew up with you in a basement, covering our favorite
pop-punk songs on miniscule bass amp and riveted cymbals.
she was there, and every she that came after. this is for
everyone that opened the always unlocked door.
this is for you and how we could have returned life
to your home. for your empty wallet and churning stomach.
for your forgotten drum set, the burned posters,
the unwatched dvds, the sold video games.
for the scrounging of lifeblood from shag carpet,
icy cement, and the searching after placing home
into the backseat of your new one.
- - -
Liam Strong is a poet from Traverse City, Michigan. You can find his work in the NMC Magazine, Dunes Review, and Poets' Night Out.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Stroke
Contributor: Michael H. Brownstein
- -
Morning, dishes in the sink,
crud on the stove, garbage
needs to be taken out,
my wife who went to bed late
still asleep, my daughter
who went to bed early snoring
soft air pockets of breath,
my son gathering his work
for another day in the lab.
The dogs need to be walked
and the paper trained puppies
have done what they are to do.
The air is breathable, sky blue,
crisp and cool, a slight
curve of breeze, almost
noticeable. My mother in a comma
five hundred miles away, the MRI
not studied yet, her hands
able to squeeze my sister's finger
reflexively, my mother breathing
on her own, the stroke to her
right side overpowering. Listen
to the chatter of the house wrens
entering their home through
breaks in the old siding.
In the distance, a barn owl.
Outside the dog owners begin
congregating in the parking lot
behind our old house, their dogs
silent as if they too know
the condition of my mother.
I plan to catch the next available
train and I'll try to get there
soon, the sun growing in color,
not a cloud in sight, the mulberry
tree allowing the squirrels, possums,
and robins a place to eat.
No one is talking. The dogs
do not bark. I can see the design
of vine rising over the neighbor's
fence, the hole beneath it
his dogs dug to escape, the break
where the children opened the wood
to retrieve overthrown balls.
My mother breathes in and out
as is our habit, her chest rising
and falling, her eyes closed,
she has nothing to say. My sisters
who live within driving distance
are with her, talking over her bed,
their cell phones in their hands.
When I finally take the dogs out,
I find other dogs blocking my usual
way, and I turn--one of my dogs
a fighter--and find another path.
They pull me this way and that
as is their habit and in a place
of weeds, linger over something.
I go to see what they are busy
studying. A dead something--too long
dead to be recognized, I tug at them
gently as is my habit, speak to them,
and begin my walk uphill back home.
- - -
Michael H. Brownstein is the author of Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100F Outside And Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013) among others. He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011) and head administrator of Project Agent Orange (http://projectagentorange.com/).
- -
Morning, dishes in the sink,
crud on the stove, garbage
needs to be taken out,
my wife who went to bed late
still asleep, my daughter
who went to bed early snoring
soft air pockets of breath,
my son gathering his work
for another day in the lab.
The dogs need to be walked
and the paper trained puppies
have done what they are to do.
The air is breathable, sky blue,
crisp and cool, a slight
curve of breeze, almost
noticeable. My mother in a comma
five hundred miles away, the MRI
not studied yet, her hands
able to squeeze my sister's finger
reflexively, my mother breathing
on her own, the stroke to her
right side overpowering. Listen
to the chatter of the house wrens
entering their home through
breaks in the old siding.
In the distance, a barn owl.
Outside the dog owners begin
congregating in the parking lot
behind our old house, their dogs
silent as if they too know
the condition of my mother.
I plan to catch the next available
train and I'll try to get there
soon, the sun growing in color,
not a cloud in sight, the mulberry
tree allowing the squirrels, possums,
and robins a place to eat.
No one is talking. The dogs
do not bark. I can see the design
of vine rising over the neighbor's
fence, the hole beneath it
his dogs dug to escape, the break
where the children opened the wood
to retrieve overthrown balls.
My mother breathes in and out
as is our habit, her chest rising
and falling, her eyes closed,
she has nothing to say. My sisters
who live within driving distance
are with her, talking over her bed,
their cell phones in their hands.
When I finally take the dogs out,
I find other dogs blocking my usual
way, and I turn--one of my dogs
a fighter--and find another path.
They pull me this way and that
as is their habit and in a place
of weeds, linger over something.
I go to see what they are busy
studying. A dead something--too long
dead to be recognized, I tug at them
gently as is my habit, speak to them,
and begin my walk uphill back home.
- - -
Michael H. Brownstein is the author of Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100F Outside And Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013) among others. He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011) and head administrator of Project Agent Orange (http://projectagentorange.com/).
Monday, September 19, 2016
Arsenal
Contributor: HR Creel
- -
though aging
I am still a fine weapon
inferno courses
through my veins
like the drugs they give me
an arsenal
for what they call healing
I am my own
arsenal for reckoning.
- - -
- -
though aging
I am still a fine weapon
inferno courses
through my veins
like the drugs they give me
an arsenal
for what they call healing
I am my own
arsenal for reckoning.
- - -
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Morgue
Contributor: Roger Still
- -
Who I am
is not on the cold
slab
No peep
from what was
a singing soul
Watch me in montage
on the walls
a few days from now
when they let me
be back with my family.
- - -
- -
Who I am
is not on the cold
slab
No peep
from what was
a singing soul
Watch me in montage
on the walls
a few days from now
when they let me
be back with my family.
- - -
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Handyman
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
If he were perfect, then
he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,
laying tile
in crooked rows,
painting windows shut,
installing commodes
that flush up.
If he were perfect, then
he wouldn't take jobs
that he can't do,
because if he did,
he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,
whistling
when things go wrong,
cursing when
things go right.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
If he were perfect, then
he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,
laying tile
in crooked rows,
painting windows shut,
installing commodes
that flush up.
If he were perfect, then
he wouldn't take jobs
that he can't do,
because if he did,
he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,
whistling
when things go wrong,
cursing when
things go right.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Pretty Pink Pill
Contributor: Tempest Brew
- -
they give
me the pretty
pink pill
suddenly
I'm a charging
elephant
my fingers
have new senses
the world
tastes like
a rosebud
strawberry delight
then I'm
not sure what
to say
when they
tell me
it was
a placebo.
- - -
- -
they give
me the pretty
pink pill
suddenly
I'm a charging
elephant
my fingers
have new senses
the world
tastes like
a rosebud
strawberry delight
then I'm
not sure what
to say
when they
tell me
it was
a placebo.
- - -
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Rolling Back The Rock
Contributor: Judy Moskowitz
- -
Going back to playing vinyl forty fives
Singing "doo wop" on every street corner
Cigarette rolled sleeve or muscle shirt
That was the fifties
Moving forward to a changing time
Where music and politics
Did not rhyme
Motown Afros and Dashikis
Marching in time
To a new culture
Rhythm spitting out anger
Loud
Janis Joplin singing Mercedes Benz
Sounds change with the flow of time
Poetry's energy writing songs
Revolutionary
A slamming reflection
I can't get no satisfaction
And the beat goes on
- - -
I am a professional jazz musician originally from New York and now residing in Florida. I started writing poetry three years ago and have been published.
- -
Going back to playing vinyl forty fives
Singing "doo wop" on every street corner
Cigarette rolled sleeve or muscle shirt
That was the fifties
Moving forward to a changing time
Where music and politics
Did not rhyme
Motown Afros and Dashikis
Marching in time
To a new culture
Rhythm spitting out anger
Loud
Janis Joplin singing Mercedes Benz
Sounds change with the flow of time
Poetry's energy writing songs
Revolutionary
A slamming reflection
I can't get no satisfaction
And the beat goes on
- - -
I am a professional jazz musician originally from New York and now residing in Florida. I started writing poetry three years ago and have been published.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Fan Theory
Contributor: Maggie Beck
- -
Every week, they glue
themselves to the set,
adjusting antennas for optimum
reception (it's not that
optimal)
A wavy picture fills
an empty life, a plot
twist point that keeps them
talking and distracted
until the next weekly event
Adjusting antennas again.
- - -
- -
Every week, they glue
themselves to the set,
adjusting antennas for optimum
reception (it's not that
optimal)
A wavy picture fills
an empty life, a plot
twist point that keeps them
talking and distracted
until the next weekly event
Adjusting antennas again.
- - -
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Rote
Contributor: Sawyer Carpenter
- -
Our life
was the bleached
hospital hall
the pristine waiting room
with its flutter magazine
pages bent
A routine
of wake up coffee
rinse repeat
Until of course
an idle cataclysm
forced reevaluating
- - -
- -
Our life
was the bleached
hospital hall
the pristine waiting room
with its flutter magazine
pages bent
A routine
of wake up coffee
rinse repeat
Until of course
an idle cataclysm
forced reevaluating
- - -
Monday, September 12, 2016
Mire
Contributor: Hannah Scarlet
- -
We wrest ourselves
from the deep
sucking wound
in earth
We have been on
this Saturday
lunch packed journey
my sneaker slipped
Sliding as an
earthquake
with a moist plucking
sound
As this planet
pulls me down
for a close talk.
- - -
- -
We wrest ourselves
from the deep
sucking wound
in earth
We have been on
this Saturday
lunch packed journey
my sneaker slipped
Sliding as an
earthquake
with a moist plucking
sound
As this planet
pulls me down
for a close talk.
- - -
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Macchiato
Contributor: Russ Cope
- -
Some people
live their lives
poised in the edge
of a caffeine bauble,
I prefer
the whiskey bottle broken
open,
floating up on the carbonation
of a Pilsner
I prefer
the clarity of vodka
sweetness of rum
or even a wine infusion
to the sucrose
kisses of candy coffees.
- - -
- -
Some people
live their lives
poised in the edge
of a caffeine bauble,
I prefer
the whiskey bottle broken
open,
floating up on the carbonation
of a Pilsner
I prefer
the clarity of vodka
sweetness of rum
or even a wine infusion
to the sucrose
kisses of candy coffees.
- - -
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Mosaic
Contributor: E.S. Wynn
- -
I imagine you
I imagine you here
instead of there
here
cuddled up on my couch
with a book
and there's coffee in the press
there's the whistle of the pot
there's the scent of something delicious
just finishing in the skillet
and you shift
and you smile
and you look at me
as I rise
as I cross to kiss you
and it's just one
of a thousand such moments we will share
simple, sweet
moments we'll want to repeat
moments that won't get old
even as we do
even as we do, together.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"
- -
I imagine you
I imagine you here
instead of there
here
cuddled up on my couch
with a book
and there's coffee in the press
there's the whistle of the pot
there's the scent of something delicious
just finishing in the skillet
and you shift
and you smile
and you look at me
as I rise
as I cross to kiss you
and it's just one
of a thousand such moments we will share
simple, sweet
moments we'll want to repeat
moments that won't get old
even as we do
even as we do, together.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"
Friday, September 9, 2016
Flicker Pink
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
Light ambrosia of the sun
is over all of her.
She is shy
the way the flicker
pink of rabbit eye
is shy. Within the
almond hair, cliffs
of cheek round in, where
unifies her chin.
There, two birds meet
before they carry out her smile.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
Light ambrosia of the sun
is over all of her.
She is shy
the way the flicker
pink of rabbit eye
is shy. Within the
almond hair, cliffs
of cheek round in, where
unifies her chin.
There, two birds meet
before they carry out her smile.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Embellish
Contributor: Natalie Bentley
- -
My identity
started as a small token
no larger than a dime
My strengths
could fit in a thimble
my fears the edge
of a sheet of paper
Longer I went
and longer I grew
until I was large
as a two story house.
- - -
- -
My identity
started as a small token
no larger than a dime
My strengths
could fit in a thimble
my fears the edge
of a sheet of paper
Longer I went
and longer I grew
until I was large
as a two story house.
- - -
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Push Back
Contributor: Angelica Fuse
- -
go ahead
think you can
push back
make the wall
meet me
I am a secret
soundless weapon
waiting
to retaliate.
- - -
- -
go ahead
think you can
push back
make the wall
meet me
I am a secret
soundless weapon
waiting
to retaliate.
- - -
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Empty House
Contributor: HR Creel
- -
There is no patter,
no foot that treads on floorboards,
only our quiet childless reflection,
giving our affection where we may,
filling our lives with other voices.
- - -
- -
There is no patter,
no foot that treads on floorboards,
only our quiet childless reflection,
giving our affection where we may,
filling our lives with other voices.
- - -
Monday, September 5, 2016
Outer Office in Hell
Contributor: Roger Still
- -
I stopped by
on my way in
just to make sure I was
in the right place,
which made them all
laugh.
They told me I had
qualified for a special
prize to see the end
of the world
from a red velour room.
- - -
- -
I stopped by
on my way in
just to make sure I was
in the right place,
which made them all
laugh.
They told me I had
qualified for a special
prize to see the end
of the world
from a red velour room.
- - -
Sunday, September 4, 2016
Painted Orchid
Contributor: Matthew D. Laing
- -
Sweet is the ferocious breath of the ocean years before,
once monolithic pines and ash barren as toothpicks,
splinters dotting grey sheets of steel, iron,
cumbersome clouds; sulfuric, engrossing air streams.
Small orchid of crimson and magenta
pure, innocent –underneath a sinewy board,
its frame. Most precious and pure.
Its emerald stem grows vertically yet is gracefully
pushed back down and towards
dark, dank soil-
and it’s lush green skin begins to corrupt.
- - -
Matthew D. Laing writes from Ottawa, Canada, and often prefers to hike along the dark adjacent mountainside.
- -
Sweet is the ferocious breath of the ocean years before,
once monolithic pines and ash barren as toothpicks,
splinters dotting grey sheets of steel, iron,
cumbersome clouds; sulfuric, engrossing air streams.
Small orchid of crimson and magenta
pure, innocent –underneath a sinewy board,
its frame. Most precious and pure.
Its emerald stem grows vertically yet is gracefully
pushed back down and towards
dark, dank soil-
and it’s lush green skin begins to corrupt.
- - -
Matthew D. Laing writes from Ottawa, Canada, and often prefers to hike along the dark adjacent mountainside.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
First Trimester
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
It always begins
like indigestion,
slowly at first,
then full bore.
Either way,
I need relief,
no question.
But no antacid
can abort a poem
so I have to stop
and take dictation.
I’m no Matthew, Mark
Luke or John.
They wrote the Gospels
by Divine Inspiration.
I’m on my own;
I have to listen.
So when the words begin
I grab my quill.
I have no choice.
I have to stop
and take dictation.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
It always begins
like indigestion,
slowly at first,
then full bore.
Either way,
I need relief,
no question.
But no antacid
can abort a poem
so I have to stop
and take dictation.
I’m no Matthew, Mark
Luke or John.
They wrote the Gospels
by Divine Inspiration.
I’m on my own;
I have to listen.
So when the words begin
I grab my quill.
I have no choice.
I have to stop
and take dictation.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Friday, September 2, 2016
Perks
Contributor: J Ash Gamble
- -
Life is full
of all these little perks
A free coffee
because of guessing a number
An extra doughnut
because of the card you redeemed
A welcome (un)welcome
guest-intruder slobbering
over your kitchen table
because of the messed up
family you married into
But the deed's done now
so you live with the results.
- - -
- -
Life is full
of all these little perks
A free coffee
because of guessing a number
An extra doughnut
because of the card you redeemed
A welcome (un)welcome
guest-intruder slobbering
over your kitchen table
because of the messed up
family you married into
But the deed's done now
so you live with the results.
- - -
Thursday, September 1, 2016
One or Two
Contributor: Hannah Scarlet
- -
I can give
you one or two
reasons to run
I would rather
list the seasons
of staying
how valuable
it is
to stand still
if only
sometimes
my creature
of furious burning
mission
rest your feet
one or two
more moments.
- - -
- -
I can give
you one or two
reasons to run
I would rather
list the seasons
of staying
how valuable
it is
to stand still
if only
sometimes
my creature
of furious burning
mission
rest your feet
one or two
more moments.
- - -