By Amy Covel I was moreconfidentwhenI knewnothingat all. NowI knoweverything,and IwishI didn’t.
Poetry Posts
Pedestrian
By Caleb Coy “Why yes, I did read a poem to Nikki Giovanni,”I will say casually. “Two poems, actually.”Yes, me and thirty other peopleAt a Barnes and Noble poetry reading. Nikki begins, describing herselfAs the sacrificial lamb, the firstTo have one’s throat cut beforeAn audience hungry for placation. I go…
11:11
By Amy Covel “Make a wish,” she said,cutting me off, mid-word.“Huh?” I asked.It didn’t matter, really,what I was going to say.“It’s 11:11,” she said. “Make a wish.”I’d never heard of such a thing.But I said, “Ah…ok.”A wish is never bad.So, I shut my eyesand wished for her success.She still doesn’t…
Sticks & Stones
By Laura LaJoie Sticks and stones May have fractured My bones, But nothing Compares to the C R I P P L I N G Destruction words imprinted On my soul. As vultures plucked one By one, their talons stripped Me of my flesh, S H R …
Ressurection
By Stacie Seidl My heart still beats My will is not broken I will never be defeated by words left unspoken Lessons were learned Growth was achieved Self resurrected I always believed
The Ghost within my Mind
By Laura LaJoie What an eerie feeling!Meeting the intruderWho’s seeking shelterWithin my mind. Exposing the horrors I’ve been numb to, Using me as its puppet! The gruesome fact is, We are one in the same, Aren’t we? A mirror image Stitched entirely of Flaws, bound tightly By self-preservation.
Numbers Woman
By John Grey Can you keep the 7to yourselfhere in this raging sea-storm,or on the mountain side,above the tree-line,when your fingers are impatientto be counting offyour sudden rise in heartbeats. Can you adds 6 to your don’t call list, and throw 5overboard at the first opportunity. Where vines creep and…
The Walk
By Gil Hoy I remember summer mornings before anyone else was awake Opening the silver side screen door dark grass, soft carpet under bare feet the already sultry sun and moist salty air Walking out onto a wooden dock with rusty nails, old varnish and a weathered bait bucket attached by a coiled brown rope that was fraying like a…
Burning The Cane-Fields
By John Grey The job’s not done yet.The fields must be burnt clear. No patting sweaty backsas the last truck rolls down the roadway.Harvest is not the end. So, in the last of sun,the wicks are lit.The sky glows sparkling grayas flame moves inon slithering snakes, scurrying rats,crackling stalks and…
Grandfather
By Gwendolyn Jensen Some say that fall is death or death imagined.And it is true that color announces both,Whether painted on the leaf or skin,Whether red or gold or pale clay. Grandfather’s picture was painted in his autumnGarden, in his dark green garden chair,The leg rest up, his legs stretched out to whereThe rotogravure is spread all around…