Ejecting love through darkest inksis a turning, an aimto match the missingpieces left behind to the whole. Some aim to turnmemories into skin, skewering thepieces left behind. Around the hole,gravity pulls each particle to my memories, skewering my skin topages—anyone’s thumbs would numb aseach particle pulls gravity.Holding the light white canvas of pages (my thumbs…
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Show me where to sign but leave me something. The pedestal missing a leg, the cardboard cut-out of me you put in the window of your store, I know I’m not who I was but still, a wooden token from the days before we went digital, a piece of thread leading me out of this…
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It’s not the house that’s haunted, it’s the person. Spirits that linger within disguise A phantom of the ghostly night Was all but forgotten amongst the wise With grimly tales that take delight By orders issued and advised By a hand that’s said to now ghostwrite: Lift your finger, shake your noseLook up, look down…
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Night leaves tearson my notebookevery time dawn comes back The ink emits a light like a firefly,and sinks to the seamless horizon Even if you vanishfrom my view,my notebook reminds meof your sorrow Even if I’m swallowedby cruel sunrise,my notebook makes me feelyour warmth Yuu Ikeda is a Japan based poet. She writes poetry on…
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When my father saw his tundra wolfIn the winter of 1985He didn’t know it was meMuskoxenRotting purple in my bellyKrummholz treesReflecting in my pupilsWreathed in mustardFur the colour his beard would turnPlastered to the ice roadTongue turned whiteHe stopped his truck And held my headIn the middle of nothingnessNahanni’s black sprucesReaching from the shadowsThe ashen snow…
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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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