Category: Poetry (Page 41 of 41)

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And It Must Follow

7 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Dianne Thomas

The night belongs
to bats and rats
and alley cats

to coons and possums
and moonflower blossoms

to kids in cars
who frequent the bars

to cruise and drink
and do the things they only think

about in daytime
when they must tow the line

to earn their keep
and only dream of sleep

to do as we did
when we were kids

our candles burning at both ends
shunning family to be with friends

dancing, laughing, singing
our ears ringing

as we moved into the street
with the world at our feet

or so we thought
until happiness could not be bought

with charm or looks
we couldn’t even get our hooks

on real affection
discovering life’s true complexion

and slowly we turned
to what could be earned

in sunlit hours
in concrete towers

to a daily grind
always keeping top of mind

the whistle blow
the freedom to go

but now to the nest
to be at rest

with comforts we’ve gained
because we’ve strained

for one more day
with dreams put away

till nightfall ends the pain
and bats and rats and alley cats
rule again

Dianne Thomas is a Detroit-based writer whose work has appeared in Octavo, Flashquake, The Threepenny Review, and other online and print publications.

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Shine On

4 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by John Grey

Dawn-light –
the eyes astound the soul
with wakening.

Bedsheets prove no hindrance.
The morning air is inundated
with visions.

A sweeping, a rising,
the deep joy of living –

and a sun that burns
as a mark of respect
for all I will do this day.

To sleep some more
would be unworthy.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages,” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

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Benthic:

3 March 2022 / Editor

Definition- the flora and fauna found on the bottom, or in the bottom sediments, of a sea, lake, or other body of water

Poetry by Johanna Tollefson

Then a realization— Underwater plants need sunlight to breath,
just like any other plant. You might think

this is a metaphor, but it’s just a fact. A fact like in her fantasies,
they are both fish. Fish have fish problems. Every day is swim
or swim away. You might think

this is a metaphor, but it’s the truth. The ultra-violet rays of the sun
spear through waterbodies. Waterbodies is the correct term for all bodies
of water, saline or fresh. Flowers and fish

are both easily killed off by phytoplankton. Phytoplankton accumulates,
grows thick in silty water, they are microscopic. In the scope of things
what else is the absence of sun but the end?

What else is beginning but a breath of fresh air and you the fish? This is benthic
living— A root in the mud soil. A fish to clean the water air. A sun to breath
light. And you, a metaphor for a rock at the bottom of a pond.

Johanna Tollefson is a writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, currently getting her MFA from Minn State, Mankato. She is new to the Midwest, hailing from Idaho and Oregon, but is settling into the long winters and humid summers. She loves all things sensory and is also growing a recipe resume which she loves to use on guests.

A wind blew through

2 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Steve Gerson

Monday, September 23, Grand Chenier, LA,
hurricane season. The sky was the color of silk

coffin liners. The wind was heaving, bowing
and rising as mourners in prayer, quiet then

shrieking when wailing began. Palm leaves
outside the bedroom window startled

and calmed and woke and roiled.
I sat in the bedroom and watched the storm

unfold as bible pages turning from John’s
hearts untroubled and unafraid to Ecclesiastes’

dust returning to the ground. Fronds on the
wallpaper, once verdant, now grayed in the storm

shadows. The chandelier swayed in the house’s
torment, casting light flickers like candles snuffed.

She was still. Only her brown hair now pewter
quivered on the pillow, a stray breeze from the window,

the curtain shivering as the hurricane descended. Others
entered the room. We stood silent, our breaths held

in her breath denied. Our silence was as the hurricane’s
eye, tornadoes swirling around a dead center.

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life’s dissonance and dynamism. He’s proud to have published in Panoplyzine, Route 7, Poets Reading the News, Crack the Spine, Montana Mouthful, the Decadent Review, Indolent, Rainbow Poems, Snapdragon, the Underwood Press, Wingless Dreamer, Gemini Ink, the Dillydoun Review, In Parentheses, and more. He’s proud to have published Once Planed Straight, a chapbook of prairie poems through Spartan Press.

Photo by Hush Naidoo Jade Photography on Unsplash

Mardi Gras Season

1 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Henry

1.
Clowns prance down streets.
Giants with stilts jerk past.
Trumpets sound. Men throw
beads from floats to topless
women like me. Flashing is
condoned. Good times roll.

2.
I decide to wear a loud boa
to be noticed in a restaurant.
My own is made of purple,
green and gold feathers. All
patrons recognize the classic
Mardi Gras colors displayed.

3.
The King Cake is my favored
dessert choice. Not baking, I
buy one from a nearby store.
I love the way the cinnamon
and icing taste. Digging out a
plastic baby doll brings luck.

4.
In New Orleans, locals dance
together at the King Rex Ball.
It’s their chance to celebrate
with formality. I’m a guest,
awestruck by the big event’s
glamor and great traditions.

5.
Mardi Gras season’s the best
stretch of life in the Big Easy.
I open the door to the whole
neighborhood. People wearing
masks sit at a table. They dine
on rich gumbo. Good times roll.

Sarah Henry is retired from a newspaper. Her poems recently appeared in Trouvaille Review, Founders Favourites, The Journal of Expressive Writing and Jalmurra. She lives and writes in a small Pennsylvania town.

Photo by Simion Andreea-Marina on Unsplash

Not Too Often

28 February 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Marianne Brems

It’s an ordinary day,
nothing to celebrate.
She puts on
just the right hat,
at just the right angle,
not for warmth
or to protect from sun,
one to blend perfectly
with the afternoon light
in a room
where heads might turn,
not too quickly,
not all at once.
No scarf over her shoulder,
no pearls around her neck,
just a hat,
not too new,
not too old,
a style seen occasionally,
but not too often.

Marianne Brems’ two poetry chapbooks are Sliver of Change (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and Unsung Offerings (Finishing Line Press, 2021). Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including Nightingale & Sparrow, The Sunlight Press, The Lake, and Green Ink Poetry. She lives and cycles in Northern California. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.

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Morning Texts

27 February 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Jon Wilder

Hi Good Morning, can you remember to call Grandma today, it’s her birthday and yes I know she didn’t really encourage you growing up so your allegiance isn’t there and yes I know she has support where she’s living, but after Grandpa died she’s just kind of pacing around the house reading magazines and sewing his old shirts into pillow cases so she can still sleep with him at night. Can you please just call her, I love you have a good day.

Jon Wilder is a poet and musician living in Portland, OR. He writes, records and releases music under the name Boom Years and his poetry has been featured in Levee Magazine, Duck Lake Books, Sonder Midwest & Salem State. His first book “Bullpen no. 1” was released in 2016 and his second collection of poetry “Original Fear” comes out on May 13.

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Witch

26 February 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Byrne Iannucci

I run my fingers through their hair and inhale, tilting slender tillers.
Our golden strands move together
when the winds speak to us – I understand their talk like the Lakota,
Shinnecock, and Cherokee, but I’m none of them.
I’m a white woman with a woodland spirit on the prairie.
I ride foxes and coyotes like stallions.
I high-five queen Anne’s lace cheering from the sidelines.
I’m Stands with a Fist when the wolves come howling.
I heal myself with witch hazel, lavender, and hawthorn.
I carry wood to the firepit where my ancestors perished.
I paint my face with their ashes and sing their songs.
The trees breeze when I dance until their leaves are gone,
and soon, I will molder, too, for I am one with the earth, bound to none.

Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a widely published poet and the author of two chapbooks, Temptation of Wood (Nixes Mate Review, 2018), and Goblin Fruit (Impspired, 2021); she is also a teacher and woodland roamer. Nancy can be found at www.nancybyrneiannucci.com.

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In the Department Store

22 February 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Juanita Rey

Don’t be put off
by brown eyes, brown face,
and the times my tongue stumbles,
flips an English phrase backward.

I am new here
and, though my colors won’t change,
words will one day come out of my mouth
without a detour via the islands.

I wish to buy this dress.
It matches my olive skin.
And I have a credit card in my purse,
ID to prove it belongs to me.

Yes, I expect assumptions, suspicions,
from those behind department store counters.
But I’m looking in a full-length mirror.
I have myself convinced.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.

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The lawsuit

18 February 2022 / Editor

by DS Maolalai

they’re worried again, in the office
over forthcoming lawsuits.
a cleaner on a site
fell off cleaning second
floor windows. now
he’s in a hospital
with a leg tied or something
and a head with a crack
and he can’t play piano
or won’t climb a ladder a while.
in the conference office
there are quiet, urgent meetings –

management flocks about trouble
with the wordless choreography
of songbirds on phone-lines
by motorways. clustering knuckles
in the afternoon’s fabric,
drawing and bursting
apart. in passing, the rest of us
make up conversation,
folding our gossip
like origami sheets; cheap gifts
made with unsteady fingers –

you know, says nicola,
he’s an engineer really, by trade,
back over where-ever
he comes from. here though
they’ve struck off
his college or something. it’s two
different countries. there was
something – was it maybe a war?
that’s why he’s just wiping off
windows in building sites,
in places like that
near the motorway.

jesus I tell her.
yeah, she says, jesus –
it’s something that happens
though, sometimes.

DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and seven times for the Pushcart Prize. He has released two collections: “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019). His third collection “Noble Rot” is scheduled for release in April 2022.