April is National Poetry Month, and, to celebrate, The Penmen Review is having a Book Spine Poetry Contest! So, what is book spine poetry? Use the contents of your library and arrange book titles to create a poem. You can see examples here: https://bookriot.com/2012/10/26/the-best-of-book-spine-poetry/ To enter, take a photo of your…
by Kristal Peace Mother used to stand Five foot four, She was proud Of her ability To do sums. Mother used to dream Of doing more Than being paid To drown her pride In other people’s dish water. Mother had an accent She said it kept people From seeing her…
by Amber Box I will deceive you So turn away where the steam of my breath cannot be seen I am wicked You are mortal The shards of glass from your own wreckage Feed my poison Injected into your veins, the ghost of yourself Your treacherous thoughts are only the…
by Brett Miller A Spin on Isaac’s Wheel I was born wide-eyed and clueless into a world liberally dyed in patterns any child could appreciate. With little transition, a chromatic shift induced a rapid decline into biodegradable Amway products and butterscotch upholstery; Avon catalogs and avocado appliances. Before the tropical…
by Jo-Anne Lucas I’m sorry but we have filled the position…. I’m sorry but you are not my type…. I’m sorry but you are no longer welcome here…. It sucks It stings It scorns I’m sorry but I already have a job…. I’m sorry but I am seeing someone…. I’m…
by Sheila Rose Montgomery I swallowed them whole. I dipped them in the gravy. I pulled out the mushrooms. He was driving the other woman around town. He knocked her up in six months. He was seen buying baby clothes in the mall. He stopped calling me. I cut the…
by David Hutt bebop jazz never bought a transatlantic ticket so I am no beat. I listen to well-weathered guitars in dive bars where people dance with razor-cut smiles and open mouths like tombs all gurning and contorting to life. I listen to poets in ties. I listen to men…
Sehnsucht [n., yearning; wistful longing; desire] by Cambria Jones spinning a globe of ridged places I have never visited against the familiar ridges of my fingertips— whorled like conversation circling a coffee shop table, like sibilance whispered in a stranger’s language I long to read, speak, know like the insides…
by Christy Bailes My drywall ears shook from French mumblings, like a Mass without God, continuing until her lips tasted coffee with hidden crumblings that replaced church talk with asylum laughter, so long, I bore a cross in my texture, waiting for God to shake religion on her head, but…
Philandering Preachers and Politicians By John Garmon Any human being is in this world once and only To pass along their take on their moral compass Having helped to raise money for politicians Preachers stand behind shaky pulpits in awe The pope sneaks out some nights and disappears Into a…