All posts tagged with poetry

March 15, 2020

“The Boggart” and other Poems by Julia Franklin

The Boggart There used to be this boggart in our house. Not a big thing, really; actually quite small. Of course, we didn’t used to see her that way; There was a time when we were the ones that were small. She had a row of teeth for every bit of flesh we bore. She’d bring them out, all neat and sharp and small. One day we stared her down and brought our own teeth out, And the growl that stirred in her throat was small. The night passed without incident. When the sun rose, We found footprints out the door. We thought, “Now who’s small?” I heard she found another house to haunt, Its occupants each Bambi-eyed and small. ** The Truckers It’s a world that…

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March 12, 2020

Our New Baristas! Welcome Michael, Amanda & Yong

Posted by Mike Rochester in News

Please join us in welcoming our new baristas to The Fictional Café! These three talented additions to our staff have rolled up their sleeves to help us brew the tastiest “fresh java” this side of Pluto. Michael Piekny has joined our Editorial Board, which also includes our editor and all-star submissions manager Ruth Simon and our editor and anthology barista, Mike Mavilia Rochester. As an Editorial Board Barista, Michael brings a robust enthusiasm for editing based upon years of practice, and the work he does at his own company, Hub Edits. If you’ve recently been published on FC, you’ve surely enjoyed working with him. Our new Visual Arts Barista is Amanda Grafe. She’ll be curating our visual art offerings, which includes anything from paintings to sculptures to photography. An artist herself, Amanda’s passion for art…

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March 8, 2020

“Jacob the Lion Hearted,” Poetry by Thomas Piekarski

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Jacob the Lion Hearted He started out trying to climb too high a ladder, fell off, smacked his head, knocked unconscious. But he wouldn’t give up just because the ladder was an obstacle. He wouldn’t give in although he had no grip on any world outside his head. Jacob took advantage of this transcendent state to luxuriate in the expanse of his imagination. He ventured like Alice through fabulous realms clinging to his unique ideals. No one else would ever understand what thoughts were propagated. Nor would he, for memory had fled in a flash. His mind a dream machine, body in suspension, Jacob manufactured fantasies, myths, religions, gave them life, far beyond anything he’d known during this his tenuous tenure on the road of life. ** Andronicus Returns to Earth A smooth landing, the toes…

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March 1, 2020

Milton P. Ehrlich — Poems of Rumination

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

ONCE Following orders on the battlefield, it was kill or be killed my sergeant said, no different than when he taught me to thrust and parry with fixed bayonet. The young soldier wore thick glasses and looked a lot like one of my classmates. Sergeant claimed Gooks don’t belong to the human race. Don’t ever feel sorry for killing an enemy, I can’t forgive myself. I look down at my finger, ready to squeeze the trigger, and hear my mother asking: What has become of you? ** THE MARITAL HAPPINESS QUOTIENT I Uber my way across the country in my Hugh Hefner silk pajamas to study happiness in marriages of all my old friends who are still walking and talking coherently. Computer porn ended a few bonds that had once bloomed like a flower. For those that served breakfast in bed, a lotus blossom was…

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February 23, 2020

“Ethereal Tryst,” Poems by Horacio Chavez

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Ethereal Tryst Meet me where the pink hued clouds entwine with infinity So, will we conjoin in our appointed waltz Upon that coral floor together in unity To enjoy what is and bemoan that which remains Our fate to hunger… Our union asunder Our feet skillful We dance the dance fate has called out Without malice though willful We are without doubt For all but our destiny… We step carefully Accepting that which is within our grasp In lieu of that wish that eludes Satisfied with the fortuitous clasp Of mind and spirit to conclude The interlude… Of our love subdued Perhaps fate will grant our desire Beyond the tryst that both plagues And blesses the fire Kindled by the wave That we may forever crave… Our ethereal tryst ** In Love With a Poet So you’re in love with a poet you say …

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February 16, 2020

“After Thucydides,” Poems by Bruce Robinson

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

After Thucydides Read to you my silent poem, how does it go? Goes without saying, va sans dire. And then someone spoke and there was the largest crowd in history, and a luminous array of tariffs made us rich again which after all was our pre-existential condition before the construction of our glorious, seguro- will-cover-it wall, and we learned that however true it may…be.. that truth is something intermittent, which is how some histories are written. ** It’s Your Past Catching Up with You and then your past catches up with you, or tries to, and then your past tries to oscillate your future, or makes a very good effort to be closer than it appears and then you’re past all caring, all over-canvassed tenses meet each other mid-stream, toll…

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January 22, 2020

“That Finals Hour,” Poetry by John Grey

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

THAT FINALS HOURIt’s not complacency. It’s stupefaction.The final is in an hour. And I’m notsucking this pen like a popsicle.Behind my lips, I’m in a chewing frenzy.Yes, I’m sipping coffee. And peelingand orange. But the activity requiredis like a drug. My frayed nerves deserveno less. Some friends stroll by.Trades looks tell all. Once eyesadopt a principle of honesty,self-confidence falls flat on its own face.In a room to the building on my right,it’s not a simple mathematics test thatawaits but the labors of Hercules.A growling Nemean lion of an algebrapuzzle. A geometrical hydra. Astamping, snorting, trigonometryCretan Bull. Compared to me,the ancient strongman had it easy.He could stop at twelve. Ah, if onlythe test were on mythology. Allthose contradictory characteristics.Gods and heroes. The supernatural.The bloody. The inspiring. Themiraculous. Best of all, one plus oneonly had to equal…

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January 6, 2020

“Low-Hanging Fireworks,” Poetry by Richard-Yves Sitoski

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Low-Hanging FireworksMother never woke up tangled in starsbut stayed on Earth, which father droppedand watched as it rolled beneath the couch.Her music was straight as a prairie road,his was bent like an elbow to the gut.He prefered the company of dogs,she of me when I felt like one.He proved that there are no happy alcoholicsand that love is conditional,she that mushrooms can push through asphaltand that cancer comes without a screenplay.The cookies she baked were chocolate chipbut I always wound up with raisin.He taught me to fish, but each oneI caught swallowed the hook.He tried to be anonymousbut the rest of the world ignored him.Some nights he came home after not coming home.Some days her migraines were low-hanging fireworks.I wrote this poem because memoryis no insurance against decay.I wrote this poem because it ain’t gossip…

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December 21, 2019

“American Child” – A Poem by M. Sullivan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

I’ve walked along the maps of my home around the bends of the Housatonic River and up Mount Greylock hanging over Jamaica Plain I’ve run my fingers over the shores of Nantucket and felt the Mystic and run my gaze over Watatic the high Wachusett and felt the rumble of the Mattapan line and wandered the streets of Swampscott and of Chappaquiddick I remember the first bus I took to school named the Cummaquid Chief and how I thought as I shook afraid that the bus would be driven by a head- dressed brown- skinned face- painted man with leather moccasins and fierce gaze the names meant nothing to me no near mountain no great cove nothing that lay in the midst of waters nor far off among the waves there was no place I…

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December 19, 2019

“Satiety,” and Other Poems by Brian Rihlmann

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

SATIETYthere used to be a much longer delay between hope and disappointment now, I pluck the fruit and it withers in my hand I know it’s bitter before my tongue does soon I’ll leave the fruit and nourish myself on emptiness I’ll chew the blue of the sky I’ll taste the black of the night and be filled ** REBORN and when the pain finally goes as inexplicably as it came we grab its arm to drag it back through the door like a spurned lover saying “please stay… I didn’t mean it” we believe if we let it go then it has no more meaning than a passing cloud a brief summer storm a dead leaf blowing down the street in the wake of a truck it must mean something more than that we think— we think so and thus it is reborn to scream at us through all our days and nights ** QUIT WEARING OTHER…

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