Category: Poetry (Page 20 of 34)

Breaking Open Joy

1 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

Focus the flow, let the gentle waves glide and roll,
rippling across the velvet smooth surface
of sand. Feel the wind settle gently into twilight— golden, shimmering.

Find gentle respite in the cool relief of night,
welcome the peace of nature’s sounds, night’s embrace
of sleepful solace. Listen to the nightingale’s melody— golden, shimmering.

Follow the dawn into tomorrow, unloading grief and sorrow,
stress and struggle, letting happiness in, breaking open the boundaries
for joy. See it waiting in wings of light— golden, shimmering.

Stacie Eirich is a poet, singer & mother of two. Her poems have recently appeared in Last Leaves, The Journey (Paddler Press), Synkroniciti Magazine and Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, among others. Her home is near New Orleans, La; her heart is wherever a song can be found. www.stacieeirich.com

Heartbreak Hotel

27 February 2023 / Editor

Special Selection for One-Year Anniversary Issue

Poetry by Nancy Byrne Iannucci

My dad always thought I looked like Lisa Marie Presley.
He was obsessed with Elvis, an Italian immigrant,
who could never quite pronounce “Presley”
without it sounding like “Pretzel.”

I was five years old when Elvis died.
my parents mourned and mourned,
I thought he was my uncle.
I screamed whenever my father put on an Elvis record.

I thought if I listened to Elvis I would die, too,
or my parents would die, or my brother,
picked off like guitar strings
if they were in earshot of Heartbreak Hotel.

When I became a teenager,
I fell in love with a dead man, James Dean.
I went on a Manhattan walking tour
when I was sixteen.

The guide took us to all of James Dean’s haunts:
night clubs, restaurants, and his abandoned apartment,
where I ripped off a piece of wallpaper
and put it in my pocket.

A woman on the tour said,
“My friend and I think
you look like Lisa Marie Presley.”
She had a tattoo of Elvis on her arm.

That night in Penn Station,
waiting for a train to take me home,
a drunk man fell on the third rail,
it shook him like a possession.

Heartbreak Hotel was playing
on the 6 o’clock news this morning.
Lisa Marie Presley died,
and now you’re ready to go.

Your backpack strapped to your back,
I watch you walk onto the platform,
blowing kisses
at my childhood triggers.

Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a widely published poet from Long Island, New York who currently lives in Troy, NY with her two cats: Nash and Emily Dickinson. She has been published in 34 Orchard, Defenestration, Hobo Camp Review, Bending Genres, The Mantle, Typehouse Literary Magazine, and Glass: a Poetry Journal. www.nancybyrneiannucci.com Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci

reflection of tree on body of water during golden hour — Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

Seen

25 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Jennifer Campbell

After being unseen
for so long
a whiteout weekend
color drew us
outdoors away
from anything but
a good lens
to document
the summer hues
layering the sky
two days after
a blizzard

blood orange poet’s sky
spread across suburbs
and hard hit city center
cummings’ pied piper
guiding walks
through soft swaths of pink
carnation coral watermelon
to tangerine persimmon flame
so many colors to consume
under a slim December moon

Jennifer Campbell is an English professor in Buffalo, NY, and a co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. She has two full-length poetry collections, and her chapbook What Came First was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2021. Jennifer’s work has recently appeared in Caesura, Flare, and Indefinite Space.

a purple chiffon fabric on white surface — Photo by Saime Dal on Pexels.com

Stage IV

19 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Miller

She graced many stages
in her 29-year-old life.
Clumsy, giggly ones
with slick patent leather,
pigtails, snug pink tights.
Sweaty, clingy ones
bent and twisted
under cruel disco lights.
Floating, chiffon ones
with crimson-lined lips,
pointed toes, height.
But in that icy, antiseptic
room with its swabs,
ceiling stickers, scopes
and gauze-filled jars,
the man with joyless eyes
rolled over in his squeaky
chair. And the words sliced
into the air like a scalpel,
shredding her satin heart.

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY who enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.

Remember Me

18 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Lauren Oertel

I grew up near the redwoods.
Cinnamon-barked queens towered over us,
each containing their own majestic ecosystem.
They provided oxygen, a fresh earthy scent,
relief from the heat and noise of the city.
They whispered the soil’s secrets into my ear.
A few had been hollowed by fire,
or reduced to a stump.
Rings chronicled their long lives,
the history of what they had witnessed.

When I die, cut me in half
right across the middle.
See my rings.

Joys and terrors over the years
each reduced to a simple circle
that captures and carries it all.
They will honor the tears shed,
wounds healed.
The fine grain, nicks, and bumps,
all smoothed over with time,
turned into natural beauty.

When my body becomes a stump,
the rings will prove I was here.
Some of them will show when I stood tall,
lush with sprays of needle leaves,
umbrella-scaled cones.
My crown stretched toward the sun,
piercing the sky.
In those times I hope I gave you shelter
from the weight of daily survival.

That’s how I’d like you to remember me.

Lauren Oertel is a community organizer for Texas and New Mexico. Her work has been published in The Ravens Perch, Evening Street Review, and The Sun Magazine. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her partner Orlando and their tuxedo cat Apollonia.

assorted books on wooden shelf — Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

The Books We’ll Never Read

15 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Francis Conlon

Sometimes the jacket stands alone,
A book cover with title embossed,
The text itself seems a weighty tome,
Whose message long ago was tossed.

Yet, I love a place with books,
Of course, there’s a fine library,
With small study spots in the nooks,
And, study of old thoughts contrary.

Is there a place—a writer’s cemetery?
Old thoughts and books gather about,
Ideas antiquated little scary,
In grumbling whispers but no shout?

So dusty is the old collection,
Stacks with volumes musty,
Nothing overdue in this section,
Just old spirits and grammar fusty.

Francis Conlon is a retired teacher living in Salt Lake City, Utah.

that’s enough

13 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Corey Bryan

I’d walk again through icy rain
to eat a chicken salad sandwich on
the world’s driest bread with you
just one more time.
I’d pretend to like seafood and say all
the right things like, “shrimp are the blue collar
workers of the ocean and it feels bad to eat them
but this cocktail sauce is way too good”
and stuff my face.
I’d support everything you
say no questions asked even if you do get a
tiny bit conspiratorial after the third glass
of the house red.
I’d tear down those reality tv show posters
they hung up on Boulevard
which cover your favorite piece of graffiti.
I’d cook you dinner
and buy all your favorite ingredients like
watermelon radishes and dinosaur kale and all the
other vegetables that sound crazy like that.
I’d watch all those shark
documentaries you love and
the more I think about it the more I think I’d
punch a shark in the nose, saddle him up
and take off for Lisbon where you are
now and say to you
“I hate shrimp and watermelon radish
and red wine and graffiti and I especially
hate dry bread
but I love you and I think
that’s enough.”

Corey Bryan is a fourth year student at Georgia State University majoring in Rhetoric and Composition. He is currently writing daily poetry prompts, along with some original poems, with a friend of his at poetryispretentious.com. He has one poem forthcoming at Sage Cigarettes Magazine titled “her kind of love”.

Feather Meme

10 February 2023 / Editor

Special Selection for One-year anniversary issue

Poetry by Marianne Brems

Hikers before me have left feathers
stuck in the cracks of a wooden trail marker
at a junction.
Small feathers with downy barbs
flutter in the fall breeze
where delicate shafts may not hold.
Large feathers with curled edges
and sturdier shafts sit deep and solid.

As memes they stand
to carry the import of one road taken,
not another,
on this day, not that.
This small family of Kilroy was Here
gather in good company
to speak to a public not yet come,
inviting them to leave their own mark
across a waiting space.

Marianne Brems is the author of three poetry chapbooks from Finishing Line Press. The most recent, In Its Own Time, is forthcoming in 2023. Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including Nightingale & Sparrow, The Sunlight Press, The Lake, and Green Ink Poetry. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.

The Hip

6 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Dawn L. C. Miller

Her ashes came to her grown daughters in a lovely box,
mahogany and rosewood,
accompanied by another box, containing
what had sustained her past the pain,
preserved her from disability,
entitled her to a parking permit.
It was her hip. Titanium and some ceramic.

Clarise and Susanne stared at it gleaming on the red velvet.
“It’s her hip,” murmured Clarise.
“Of course it is,” stated Susanne. “I can see that.”
“What are we supposed to do with it?” continued Clarise.
“Well, we can’t scatter it with her ashes. Someone might find it.”
They stared some more.
Together they debated all evening, agreeing on nothing.

The next morning it gleamed at them from the mantle.
Without looking at it,
in between angry silences,
and tears,
they talked.

The memories of places their mother had never been
floated into the morning light.
The seashore, when she stayed behind to take care of things at home.
The mountains she did not go with them to see:
no need to pay extra fare.
All the beauty and the music of far cities,
too expensive.
“Let’s take her there now!” they both said together.

And the journeys began.
Perched on a gunnel, their mother’s hip resounded with sea sounds.
Lost in the luggage for three days in Kenya,
Mother was found at last by a drug sniffing dog.
She rolled off into the snow at an Austrian ski resort,
but sat gleaming on a chair in the best restaurant in Paris
as her daughters laughed and toasted and remembered.

Dawn L. C. Miller has been writing poetry since childhood. Her poems have been published in Poetic Hours and Pegasus Review. She enjoys living on Maryland’s Eastern Shore with her two cats and orchids.

beach sand — Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

Reflected Light

3 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Wendy Bloom

I saw the light reflecting on a piece of something buried in the loamy soil
When I looked closely, I realized it was a piece of myself
That I had buried away for darker days

Filled with darkness and despair
In a world filled with the tragic
It had fallen out of me, and I thought it was gone forever
But it was lying right in front of me

I grasped it in my hand
This shiny piece of myself
I turned it over and over
And rubbed my fingers against its slick surface

I decided to swallow it
To bring it back home to the center of my emptiness
To fill this hole with something that glistened
And sang beautiful music to my heart

It became one with me once again
And I smiled as I heard it laughing
Because it had been seeking me for so long
And had finally made its way back home

Wendy Bloom is an emerging writer who has written numerous poems, short stories, and essays on a wide variety of topics since childhood. She has been published in her local newspaper and “Reflected Light” is her first published poem.