Tag Archives: poetry
A door is alarming, left open. A leaving;
belief that the exited party will memorize
reasons to find you again. And then. When
it happens, what Saturdays. What planned
activities. What woman that rends your
days. What ways you insist that your hair
can be combed and your failings cannot
Wings rutting through dust like glittering,
hardened sky, I’m fool enough to believe
this bird’s dying, not sunning—body unfurling
like a gasoline stain, acrid iridescence rushing
asphalt that could fry an egg to savory silk.
I drop to my knees as he arches and lashes,
scapulars open as mantle feathers curl and lilt.
He’s a Japanese fan, throat tucked flush, tail
an untamed fractal spent as the heat striating
Sara Henning, Thrush
Up from smolder, smoke sits knitting its braid in the dark.
Tuck the tip into your locket, curled and frayed in dark.
I took sad receipt of your last letter, a scratch of ink
and ash borne on the edge of a spade in the dark.
Bury the memory in your little black dress. One bite
of bourbon and dirge becomes serenade in the dark.
Sarah J Sloat, Citron Review
It sat downstairs on the air hockey table,
its shedding needled branches, its copper wire arms.
With care, our mother draped its false twigs in silver
garlands, two for a dollar on the clearance rack,
and the ornaments–her mother’s, long dead–
we cradled in our palms like baby Jesus might have
been held, our non-savior swathed in hay in the barn-crib, safe
Leila Chatti, Linebreak
I like the kind of rain
that upsets people
postpones the softball game
stops traffic and the radio
I am the man
Salvation Army shoes
straightening cigarette butts
in front of the laundry mat
personal Jesus t-shirt
Scott Nolan, Puritan Magazine
Let us take the river
path near Fall Hill.
There we will negotiate
an outcrop with its silvered
initials & other bits of graffiti,
all the way to the broken edge
that overlooks the bend,
& hold hands until
we can no longer tell
where the river ends.
-Jon Pineda, via Poets.org
upon his execution by bolt gun at the Copenhagen Zoo
Because, they said, genetics. Et
when the steel bolt retracts, the giraffe’s
in on itself like a cup, blood
from the heart circulates ‘still
in the edible flesh. He felt,
we are told, nothing. Not
the bolt’s cold lobotomy. Not
Not his slack body hauled
to the stage. The Danes
—babies in the arms of their mothers, in one
photograph a dad with his son—have come
hungry to the zoo’s cruel—
they call it—lesson. The lions
beside the stage circle.
This very short story/prose poem by Marlene Olin (not quite sure what it is except that it’s fantastic) knocked my SOCKS off – read it. It’s so worth it for the end, such power and joy.
When the light turned green, the old man walked into traffic. Perhaps the light was red and he took too long to negotiate the curb or maybe he just wasn’t paying attention. But one minute there was a glimpse of white hair and an airborne fedora, and the next moment there was a thud.
The woman slammed on her brakes and ran into the street.