I found a notebook filled with fragments.fleshless bones,skeleton poems,stillborn fiction.I reread them,bleedings from a badly sutured year,throatless memoirmy own ragechoked by my own pen.my own thoughts shrouded, unallowed.no more.I tore each page from the spine and burned my words alive. Missy is a Cleveland poet, madly in love with words.
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Does your soul live with you? It is dark. The night is losingits battle against the eternity,although it’s never giving in.I was trying to switch offthe moonlight, and take offtoday’s colourful skin. Because beneath there isa memory of never endingnight that started with a fool moon.Because beneath there aretricky memories ending likea good movie –…
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My eyes are lilies.My skin turned toflower flesh forcingsecrets straightto my bright heart.So I become a rose,flower head with no potbut field fresh and readyfor my growth. Robert Allen lives and loves with his family in northern California. In his spare time he writes poems, takes long walks, and looks at birds.
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I am four-years-old. Sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub while my mother paints on her cat-eyes. It is not enough to watch her in the reflection of the tri-fold mirror. I want her to face me, to feel her arms around me, to squeeze me until bedtime. Instead, she sprays her sweeping up-do…
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The Rabbi Spokeon Yom Kippur ofthe importance of Forgiveness.He acknowledged thepain of rejection, ofinsult,rebuke,abuse,and the daily burden ofcarrying unwanted memories. Let them gohe implored us.Let them go and beFree.Free of the spirits occupying too much space in your mind,leaving little room for Peace,Love andJoy that surrounds us.Letting go does not requireforgiveness.He said,Letting go offers usFreedom. The Rabbi spoke, And…
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She wears a fur coat when the thermostat reads ninety, yet she can’t seem to stop herself from running through the dandelion littered grass. She runs through the field with the carefree indifference of the children who trotted here months prior, causing the white globes of seedlings to explode and scatter in the stagnant air.…
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“Ortolan in Winter” is a vivid poem that sing like a bird. The poet, Mercedes Payton, is a graduate of Kansas State University and librarian.
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This dawn the equinox moon is waning a black belly with a left-handed crescent and waxing with frog bubbles puff-up sparrows ferny fiddleheads popping bloodroot in vernal burgeoning. Certain poets (the Beats in particular) prescribe some shack simple those rough-hewn days of dharmas and canned beans in a far-out hovel to revive the talent for…
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One thing can lead to another, just like how one dish piles on top. “Dishes” By John Brady illustrates another side of marriage.
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