Category: Poetry (Page 39 of 41)

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lament

15 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Nicholas Barnes

when you stopped
looking at ladybugs

like they were miracles

like they shouldn’t be there

but they somehow were,

and you started looking
at them like …

i’ve seen
a million of you before,

that’s the day you died.

that’s the day you stopped
loving yourself.

Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He currently works as an editor in Portland, and enjoys music, museums, movie theaters, and rain. His poems have been accepted by Mortal Mag, Barzakh, and Something Involving A Mailbox!, among others.

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Family Dinner #3

13 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Grace Huynh

you look around
seeing the people you love
and suddenly,
you feel like you know nothing at all.

you want to hear them speak
about everything they know
you want to wash the cigarette smell from your hair with their words
you want to rinse your hands with their research

hoping that their knowledge on
art, poetry, palestine
and the berlin club scene

will somehow find its way
through your ears
into your brain
and out your fingertips
to build a monument
with everything you know

from times fueled by arak and fifa
and late night drives through abdoun
break-ins to your apartment from your balcony
and neighbors throwing rocks at you from their roof
or when you had to wake her up for university
and how you felt when they had to leave

but maybe i don’t need to build them a monument
because my tribute to them is me.

Grace Huynh is a writer originally from Orange County, California. She gathers inspiration from California, the Middle East and her heritage roots in Vietnam. Her poetry was exhibited through a one-month residency at the Jordan National Gallery of Fine Arts. Contact her at [email protected] or on Instagram @homeherewriting.

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Where to Start

11 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sara Sherr

Let’s play this backward, that could be the place to start.
Driving home from practice with your dad, fear sang
you’re the worst one on the team, you’re the worst one on the team.

Remember us at Hannukah, you’re a baby with curly hair,
you’re safe, you’re protected, everyone here loves you and always will.
The four of us, forever, you loved your little sister,
you’ll always miss her. You fell asleep with your hand on her arm
at your grandparents’ while the cars rushed by below. Go to sleep now.

Remember it with me, shield your eyes so love doesn’t blind you.
Fear lived inside these stories. But what did the trees say?
Love sung on, floated in the sunlight on the lake
your mom, your girlfriend, lying on the blow up boat and there were no mirrors
and there were no cell phones there was just
the present, the radiant, exalted now.

You never really rode horses, your bike never really got crunched,
you never yanked up a whole garden at its roots. Bravo, my love, I’m proud and
you made it all up. You never got to be a boy but you’re glad about that now, right?

You made it all up. You never got to be a boy, but you’re glad about that now. Right?
You never yanked up a whole garden at its roots. Bravo my love, I’m proud and
you never really rode horses. Your bike never really got crunched.

The present, the radiant, exalted now.
And there were no cell phones there was just
your mom, your girlfriend, lying on the blow up boat and there were no mirrors.
Love sung on, floated in the sunlight on top of the lake.
Fear lived inside these stories. (But what did the trees say?)
Shield your eyes so love doesn’t blind you. Remember it with me.

At your grandparents’, while the cars rushed below, go to sleep now,
you’ll always miss her. You fell asleep with your hand on her arm,
the four of us, forever. You loved your little sister.
You’re safe, you’re protected, everyone here loves you and always will.
Remember us at Hannukah, you’re a baby with curly hair.

You’re the worst one on the team, you’re the worst one on the team.
Driving home from practice, with your dad, fear sang.
That could be the place to start. Let’s play this backward.

Sara Sherr is a writer and high school English teacher who lives in Yarmouth, Maine with her fiancé and their dog. Let’s get in touch: [email protected].

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A mind like a broken arm

9 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Mieke Leenders

The room screams… YOUR BODY IS NOT WELCOME
White cloth and alcohol remove anything human.
“Why did you run out of class?”
The only human thing, a stain just below her collar
She leans forward.
“It got too loud.”
The orange stain, a calming desert.
“You were in the middle of an exam. No one was talking.”
She notices my gaze. She looks down at her coat and frowns.
White cloth and alcohol.
“I need your help with a small task. Will you help me?”
Hazy orange desert. I see you from behind a foggy window.
“I need this note delivered to the principal’s office.”
Principal’s office; stale coffee smell, worn carpet, unused file cabinets, pale rings on desk, …
“I’d like you to put it straight into the principal’s hand.”
… one window on the top, always open, doesn’t mask the smell …
“Her secretary will let you through, I already called her.”
… door with patched varnish, loose threads on the curtain, wooden closet with a secret.
She snaps her fingers. “Hey!”
The stain is gone. The coat is different.
“Here you go.”
She smiles. Her wrinkles are canyons filled with orange dust. An orange desert.
“Hurry now.”
I take the note. I know it says I can go home.

Mieke Leenders is a freelance writer and editor with a Masters in Art History and certificates in Teaching, Journalism, and Editing. Originally from Belgium, she set out on a solo backpacking trip which led her to put down temporary roots in Costa Rica. Mieke is passionate about travel, hiking, literature, photography, animal welfare, social justice, and art.

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Black Lines

8 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by J.V. Foerster

Her wings are cut and then she is blamed for not knowing how to fly.”
Simone de beauvoir

I imagine my body
free from its bones
the wind my invisible sister

Free from waking up
and weighing myself
each morning to see what place

I have on the ground in
this world of obsession
to form and insolence.

I dreamed last night that birds
were flying at me and behind them
they left lines in the air.

Thin black lines to hang up my
desires or to dry out my regret.
I think they came to show

me that when the eye can no longer
find its place in the ordinary you
must sleep and dream another life.

J.V. Foerster has been published in Eclectica, Agnieszka’s Dowry, Red River Review, Midnight Mind, and many others. She was nominated in 2011 for a Pushcart for “Apple Girl” by Fox Chase Review. J.V. has work in the Rosemont College Press and Philadelphia Stories Anthology “50 Over 50: Celebrating Experienced and Emerging Women Writers.” She lives in Portland, Oregon.

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A Collection of Three

4 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Philip Davison

For Instance

Dents in cars
red ivy
enormous trees,
you don’t want to
miss these
when out
buying sausages
or looking for love.

The Living of a Life

There and back
is the sum of it,
though that can’t be confirmed.

Celebration

Planning a play date
with her best friend
over the phone
she says –
‘The first thing we’ll do
is put on our masks and hug.’

Philip Davison lives in Dublin. He has published nine novels. Quiet City is his most recent work. He writes radio drama, has written two television dramas and one stage play. He co-wrote Learning Gravity, a BBC Storyville documentary on poet and undertaker, Thomas Lynch. His poems have appeared in various journals.

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To Old Grass and Weeds

3 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Darrell Petska

Sap-shorn and light-forsaken,
quashed by winter’s boot

you wait, underground exiles
spending summer’s store
till earth’s cold armor chinks.

Old friends, lend us once more
dreams of sunny surfeit and green delight.
Rekindle our faith that spring winters
snugly in bone as in root:

though shoot and flesh till different fields,
life seeds one urge to rise and thrive.

Darrell Petska is a retired university editor. His poetry and fiction can be found in 3rd Wednesday Magazine, First Literary Review–East, Nixes Mate Review, Verse Virtual, Loch Raven Review and widely elsewhere (conservancies.wordpress.com). A father of five and grandfather of six, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years.

Snowscape

2 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Frank William Finney

Sinking in the snow
after feeding my hens.

A light bulb peeks
through the coop’s icy mesh

Feathers feast
on frozen mash

as the flurry buries
a trail of my footprints.

Frank William Finney is a poet and former lecturer from Massachusetts. He lived in Thailand from 1995-2020, where he taught literature at Thammasat University. His work has appeared in Hedge Apple, Lemon Peel Press, The Raven’s Perch, and The Thieving Magpie; New work to appear in The Deronda Review, Freshwater Literary Journal, and Press Pause Press. His chapbook The Folding of the Wings is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Mud Season

30 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Emily Donaldson

A scrambled egg breakfast,
a pocket clementine, tea.

Heavy boots pulled over wool socks,
knowing each step will be unsteadied
by the hungry latch of mud season.

Resident red breasted robins dart in undergrowth.
Crows call to each other from the wood.
Steam rises from the tea, curls like frost smoke
above the last vestiges of snow.

A wrack line of melting ice gravid with topsoil, softening.

The mud-stirred rush, sharp and sweet.
The ovary of a former flower, pulled first from its branch,
and then from my pocket. Clementine peels dropped as eggshells,
as petals. Pulling spongy ribbons of pith from half-moons, as fine as root hairs,
jagged as lightening.

A striking vision of seasonal return, this jeweled orbit:
ruby-crowned kinglets, blue-headed vireos,
yellow-bellied sapsuckers reclaiming their home
amidst black capped chickadees and wheeling starlings.

Calling the promise of nests, of precious eggs cradled in
loose twigs, chaos ordered with care. Their nocturnal flights
under cover of darkness like glittering comets,
bringing new life to beloved ground.

Showing us to make home in the dead wood.

And I, having devoured the world in a morning,
wingless, nursing citrus sting on cracked lip,
whisper thanks.

Emily Donaldson writes as a way to connect with everything around her, and to explore the relationship between the natural and our inner worlds.

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My Eyes Are Small

29 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Walter Weinschenk

The portals of my eyes are small
But through them I see the Pleiades,
And when the atmosphere is clear
I see them staring back at me.

My ears are also small:
Narrow halls through which I heard,
One dismal afternoon,
The steady drum of Death,
His footsteps loud upon the stairs;
Steady at first, then tentative,
They slowly faded as Death retreated
For no apparent reason.

In the silence of the morning,
Some trifling sound – a chirping bird,
A broken twig, it doesn’t matter which –
Is loud enough to rouse
The mountain from his sleep;
He lets roll the snow
And it decimates a town
That took a thousand years to build.

And so it is that the enormity of love,
Too immense to understand,
Is born within the gentle press
Of pallid lips together,
And the touch of tiny fingertips
Across the boundless space
That lies between two sets of eyes.

Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. His writing has appeared in a number of literary publications including the Carolina Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Cathexis Northwest Press, Beyond Words, Griffel, The Raw Art Review with work forthcoming in the Iris Literary Journal and Sand Hills Literary Magazine. Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D.C.