Category: Poetry (Page 19 of 34)

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

Trimester to St. Patrick’s

16 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Jeannette Tien-Wei Law

Ice morn, fog cloak, fierce gray snows
Ash trance, tree bones, stone mute crows
Steps swish, crisp blades, sham rocks crunch
Three leaves, talc coats, luck’s charm froze

Jeannette Tien-Wei Law was awarded the 2022 Newman Prize for English Jueju, an international distinction for original poetry in classical Chinese form, written in English. Currently an educator in Milan, Italy, her poetry has won acclaim in academic circles and a growing number of global publications.

From One Adult to Another

14 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Brian C. Billings

Let’s skip the gifts this Christmas.

Oh, let the children have their boxes
and stockings and weeks of waiting;
they have innocence and energy.

The two of us have jobs.

Why worry once again about
the niceties of equivalent exchange
or dropping hints inside of stores?

How much bric-a-brac can we afford to hoard?

Cracking the ritual might hurt
but not so much as hemorrhaging
money and mind for months.

We’re neither one of us detectives.

I think we can agree upon what’s small
to mean the deepest feeling and allow
the credit cards a chance to cool.

I like a latte. So do you.

To be beyond eighteen should mean
cutting ties with those tyrannical lists
our mothers taught us we should make.

Gifts are hard. Leave penance for the cards.

Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, Antietam Review, Argestes, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

Strategies for Defeat

9 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Erin Lunde

Are you mad at me? means: I’m worried about something I said to you/about you/around you a few days ago.

Are you mad at me? means: I’m waiting for you to be mad about the thing I said to you/about you/around you a few days ago.

Are you mad at me? means: You’re never mad at me, so I know I’m ridiculous.

Are you mad at me? means: You’re never mad at me.

Are you mad at me? means: Why aren’t you ever mad at me? Why aren’t you ever anything at me?

Are you mad at me? means: I feel like a child.

Are you mad at me? means: Take care of me like a child.

Are you mad at me? means: I’m waiting.

Are you mad at me? means: Something happened and I want you to know it.

Are you mad at me? means: Something happened and I didn’t tell you about it.

Are you mad at me? means: I am so mad at myself.

Are you mad at me? means: I should have told you about that thing that happened the other day and that it continues to happen every day.

Are you mad at me? means: I should tell you.

Are you mad at me? means: I probably never will.

Are you mad at me? means: Why don’t you ever ask me?

Are you mad at me? means: About anything?

Are you mad at me? means: See, it’s happening again, right now.

Are you mad at me? means: I’m mad at you, but you’ll never know because you won’t ask:

Are you mad at me?

Erin Lunde writes in Minneapolis, MN where she lives with her family of five. Her writing is published in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Bangalore Review, Intrinsick, Openwork Mag and others. She writes “Fiction at Five” on Substack; she’s on Instagram @everythingerinlunde, and at erinlunde.com.

62

7 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Corinne Walsh-Williams

my age feels like a vapor
sinking into my skin
seeping inward
to the warm
watery places where
my dreams are swimming
in the lukewarm juices
of my soul –
and everything
all that is left at least
is simmering to a broth

Corinne Walsh-Williams currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island where she earned her Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Covid gave her the poetry bug and she considers herself an emerging poet.

home for the holidays

3 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Farmer

the cold the waiting
the airport the anticipation the anxiety
the arrival the introductions the hugs
the car the road the talking
the home the familiar the suitcases
the shopping the cooking the eating
the mess the cleaning the dishes
the board games the laughter the competition
the fire the warmth the stories
the traditions the movies the quoted lines
the photos the misunderstandings the confrontations
the alcohol the overeating the teasing
the gifts the hugs the texting
the sore throats the tea the tissues
the cold the grey the wind
the accusations the whispers the hurt feelings
the love the irritation the exhaustion
the suitcases the packing the loading
the car the road the silence
the airport the departure the hugs
the cold the relief

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. Read more at NicoleFarmerpoetry.com