Category: Poetry (Page 17 of 33)

Epithalamium

13 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Trent Busch

The quilt rack I’m building
for my nephew was commissioned
in a silent deal: I’ll make
you one on the promise
I’m spared the ceremony.

He made no promise, nor
was asked for one outside
the conversation I
tied the ribbon on of
present without presence.

How could he? Those other
ones who see the moment
of their lives beyond the whims
of sickness, golf, or I’d
rather be in Georgia.

It’s three-quarters finished,
the arches a ring of
laminated oak,
dowels, stretchers, and base
a half year in the planning

to remind them on their June
day of Christmases
and the hard snowy nights
shared by their ancestors
in new, west Virginia.

In my mind, except for
flowers, I’ve played their song,
done the dance and built my
part of the bargain. Where they’ll
get the quilt I don’t know.

Trent Busch, a native of rural West Virginia, now lives in Georgia where he writes and makes furniture. His poem “Edges of Roads” was the 2016 First Place winner of the Margaret Reid Poetry Prize.

The Power of the Circle

6 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

The river was raging
But the herd’s only choice was to cross
So the baby moved even closer to his mother
Remaining under the others’ watchful gazes.

The storm had created a ravenous monster
Drawing the elephants away from the riverbank
On the other side
Like a Siren.

But they were powerful
And each purposeful step
Brought them closer –
Except for the baby
Exhausted by his attempts to move
As the current swirled around him
Pulling him away from the herd
And down towards the wildness of the rapids.

The herd was drained as they gratefully climbed the embankment
And only the mother and her baby were left
To fight the tentacles of the river
But just as the baby seemed to be safe and about to step onto the land
The current tightened its grip
And started to yank him away from his mother
But she wouldn’t cede her boy to the greedy waters
And she thrust her trunk under him and held on
So he wouldn’t be swept away
But the river also refused to back down
Now that it had the baby firmly in its grasp.

The other elephants turned and saw the struggle
And knew what they had to do
So they lumbered back down the embankment
And without hesitation stepped back into the ferocity of the river
And they surrounded the mother and baby with their power and strength
And love.

The mama took a step back to join the protection of the circle
Keeping the baby in the heart.
With renewed strength, together they pulled him out from the jaws of the insatiable barrage
And brought him back to the safety of the land
Where he remained in their center
And after a moment of renewal
They turned and made their way as one
Onto the next step of their journey.

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Your Daily Poem, Grande Dame Literary, Fresh Words, The Bluebird Word (read her poem from May 2022), Discretionary Love, and more. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and was the copy editor for another paper. She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.

Rise

3 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Elizabeth Hereford

for Glenn

He took his time to see the stars,
tested the seconds to capture their essence.

Paused.

He devoted time to thought,
taught us by example,
made space for you,
and listened like he did to the night,
with eyes and ears wide open.

It took patience to watch the sun and moon rise,
but he waited for them faithfully,
knowing the sight would be worth his time.

He still has faith in you, always.

So rise, and do it thoughtfully,
knowing that when the stars
shine tonight he will
be among them.

Pause for him.

Test how many seconds it
takes to capture him in your heart.
Make space for him
and he will keep listening,
faithfully.

Elizabeth Hereford is an emerging writer living in Naperville, IL. She holds a BA in English from Grinnell College and an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University. She has poetry forthcoming in Literary Mama and is currently writing a novel in verse.

How to Walk Your Dog

1 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Farmer (after Julio Cortazar)

Begin by tossing your senile mom’s prescription drugs down the toilet, then run through the house humming a tune until it hits you that they will all dissolve and end up in the city water system, or the ocean, worse, and pull your hair at your stupidity! When you hear her alarm go off, run to get the dog and whisper ‘We have to get the hell outta here!’ Dash to the car and sit still together while the engine warms. If you hear a whippoorwill, and feel the pink streaked sky cloud your mind, and the overhead light melts and drips into your coffee mug, then you are ready to be dragged through the woods by a fifteen-pound terrier who refuses to learn to fly (Don’t boss him, don’t cross him, he’s wild in his anger) – No, wait, that was just the smell of stars crashing to the earth and the taste of your palms exploding in a joy you cannot explain for the beauty of this day. Don’t worry, the rabbit can lead you home.

Nicole Farmer is a reading tutor living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been published in many magazines. Her chapbook entitled Wet Underbelly Wind was published in 2022. Her book Honest Sonnets: memories from an unorthodox upbringing in verse will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023. Visit her website: NicoleFarmerpoetry.com

Bellflower

30 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

for Barnett

You were a surprise—
planted in early spring

in soil too dry
to hold the essence of you,

but there you were
digging in

like the Bellflower
that has ridden the wind,

dropped gently or tumbled
into a dark, moist, earth-spiced bed

to carry the generations
that shaped its destiny

to grow , bloom, offer itself
to the world as a spark of color,

royal purple heralding the summer
against a background green as hope.

And here you are,
my own unexpected Bellflower

just when I was sure
the field had gone fallow.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in numerous anthologies, print magazines and online. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press) with a third from Kelsay Books in Fall 2023.

hi tech goodbye tech

28 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Victor Pearn

in the post office
everyone standing in line
was looking at their phone
on the bike path
walking or running
everybody is connected
and on the internet
and paying a lot of money
Id rather be free

Victor Pearn poet-in-residence at Quincy University, and now lives in Fort Collins, Colorado. BA University of Illinois, Springfield, MA University of Colorado, work appears in 200 magazines: Caribbean Writer, Chiron Review, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Midwest Quarterly, Mind Matters Review, Negative Capability, Seventh Quarry. Awards: 1984 Colorado University Poetry Contest.

Ginger Cake

26 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Jane Perry

a fellow chorus member tells me she tripled her recipe for ginger cake the middle did not cook even though she kept the cake in the oven longer than recommended and tested it several times with toothpicks until it came out clean I eat an outer piece which helps me sing with verve the next day she brings me a “gift” in a small baggie two oily-moist molasses-brown squares from the center I can see the uncooked goo through the plastic I eat one beginning with the cooked part and then the pasty part my headache goes away after a minute I save the second for just the right occasion

Jane Perry, guest on unceded Ohlone Territory, member of 1000 Grandmothers, author of the cross-genre White Snake Diary, published in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, The Oaklandside, The Gloucester Times, Paper Dragon, Alluvian, and The Ravens Perch. Jane’s sound poem “Echo Bridge” was a poetry finalist in The Missouri Review in 2021.

Gypsies

25 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by David Sapp

The tour book
My vade mecum
In prudence or prejudice
Warned of nimble
Pickpocketing gypsies
Roman Romani
For the entire trip
In heightened vigilance
I was prepared to dispatch
As so instructed
“Hit the road!”
In perfect Italian
After the Caravaggios
At Santa Maria del Popolo
Paul’s conversion
Peter’s crucifixion
Their world their view
Turned upside-down
In aesthetic inebriation
We sat put our backs
Against the chiesa wall
An Egyptian obelisk
An arched Roman gate
History looming
Heavily in the piazza
Gelato on our minds
And there approaching
Finally! the unkempt woman
Her intent quite clear
And my opportunity:
“Vada via!”
Immediately I apprehended
My impertinence
As her expression was more
Disappointment than anger
As if: “you seemed like
A nice young man your
Rudeness unnecessary”
Rome was her city
Rome was her suffering
Her Via Dolorosa

David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom.

The Universe on Rewind

21 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by E.J. Mathews

There, at the end of everything
bodies birth bullets and ghosts
grow flesh. Liquid steel freezes
into stone and trees sink into soil.
Planets fling themselves thin
until they are dust and stars
suck light through fission.
Gold races towards a black hole
to become heat and light.
All knowledge learned will be forgotten.
Rusty wrecks repair themselves to
mint condition floating upward
through the dark water into the light
kissing the air.

E. J. Mathews has an MFA in Creative Writing from Hamline University. He is from International Falls, Minnesota, and has previously published pieces in Mistake House, rock, paper, scissors, and TeenInk Magazine.

Photo by Richard Pasquarella on Unsplash

Shells

19 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Fred Miller

Like a federation of flowers
with slick, shiny faces,
they sparkle in the light from above.

And dance with tiny ripples
that lap up on the shore by my toes.
Are those conspiratorial smirks I see?

Could these new arrivals be laughing at me?
Maybe it’s a gurgling gathering of giggles or
woeful mothers weaving tales of youth lost at sea.

What’s with the frozen faces, I wonder?
And where on this vast planet have they been?
And where could these vagabonds be going?

No doubt, they slipped in on the morning tide.
Will they steal out when the new moon beckons?
Please pause and share tales of daring treks to afar,

And tempests you’ve chanced on the angry seas.
Paint pictures of huge fishes of the deep
you’ve encountered across the vast, blue sea.

And of melodies of whales soothing calves.
Peering up in silence, they gently nod.
Small waves kiss this congress tumbling about.

Another brings another and more as
they roll and toss and sway and nod again.
And in the blink of an eye, they are gone.

Fred Miller is a California writer. His poems and stories have appeared in publications round the world over the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com