de rerum natura and I realized I was the pieces I was picking up, all scattered across the floor, all technicolor fragments of static jettisons from far away; I am a farmer in Kansas. I am a doctor in Nairobi. I am a prisoner in Beijing and a pilot in Lahore and a fisherman off the coast of Jeju Island; the saltwater pulls at them with its ebb tide but all the same the lines on my hands are not ones that can be washed away ** love in lost time I shot Proust dead in an alleyway on my way home from work. It was something he said it was love is a reciprocal torture his body hit the pavement with a thud. It started raining on my walk home and I…
Your Habit or Mine? Two Poems by Chad Lutz
859 Years they were singing Ave Maria in the streets when the flames leaped out of its crown like a scurry of small animals glass popping wood hissing from years of accumulated moisture they’re calling it a shared sadness it’s madness what we find in the losing ** If Anything, We Played Each Other you only smoke on occasion you smoke every day of your life fingers caked with the cancer you’ll contract the Turkish spices and menthol chards your lungs draw deep your mouth purses saying you’ll quit tomorrow telling me you’ll quit today we share a Size 8 waistline & every order of nachos you plant kisses on my earlobes & tuck your hands into the seat of my pants we dance but that’s it you’re everything to me a habit to pass…
Posing the Tough Questions — Poetry by Casey Aimer
Lawrence Sullivan Ross In Aggieland where the Kool-Aid is laced with bled maroon were they conscious of the irony in 1918, preserving their Confederate General hero in bronze skin? Today, Sully, I mapped out your statue like you mapped out the West, my legs dangling, sitting on your copper head and Van Dyke beard. All so I could say this: When the immigrant sculptor, Pompeo Coppini, was re-forging your sole into existence I bet you struggled and resisted your creator. When your fingers were being hammered into submission you clutched in desperation didn’t you at the white work floor lights before being carted away in a colored wheel barrel. At your dedication you protested the brown and black pebbles underneath your podium. They reminded you too much of the people screaming freedom amid Reconstruction where…
Dark Poetic Visions of Nigeria by Batunde Babafemi
Reminisce You remember when we were too beautiful to smile? savoring the tears for another day? How we search our breath In our nose? You see the prophesy was true; we will all die But my lover’s death took away my spine. I crawl all night and wonder about the shadow of a man buried inside a plank—The day I heard his demise, I thought it was a prank Until I see tears from my eyes. My love, How long have you been cold? Alone, I buried my pain inside my gaze looking through our memories I heard your voice inside my speech, & when the clergy summoned me My words become flaccid Like this I know how much death took from me. Abigail Her silence has words burning inside her Same as a…
“Gods of Death” and Other Poems by JC Mari
gods of death field of clover spread like multitude of hands extended out for you, and they trot a mild-paced approach river-stream of manes and tongues and eyes and belly and hoof breathing out a strength you’ll never know, like stained-glass mandalas pierced by dawn or storm on the eagle’s beak. strangers to each other and ourselves we limp and gaze our puzzlement away befuddled, secret enemies of the wondrous empty all around. this is also how they will approach and enter death. you’d have to be a god to live even a minute of your life this way. ** for the 2 or 3 who read my poems when you ask to read one of my poems i’m 12 again, untouched by whore and booze. when you pick up a copy of my book…
The Mechanics of Melancholy: Engaging Poetry by Rick Ratliff
Dark hallways Long hallway, doors on either side Like the departure platform at a rail station. No eye contact, everyone looking down, Shuffling along the bland grey floor. Away from the new arrivals Lighting is always dimmed like perpetual twilight And darkness creeps out of some doors like a black fog We come to say goodbye to those who no longer hear, And who stare blankly at the ceiling: While we are looking at the floor. Departure time is slowly approaching, Breathing is mechanical like worn breaks And the smell, the odor that’s hard to describe– Body odor with musty deodorant Exhalation is pungent. No talking now It goes quiet at departure As we silently stand in ovation as we exit FORGOTTEN SONG FORGET ME NOT She’s not you — yet, neither are you, (anymore) You would like her; I think. Flaxen hair (like yours) And I trust all the understanding A widow has of memories and loss. That helps, as I am daily learning To be the reluctant guardian…
Jennifer Judge’s Poetry Tells Us The Way Things Just Are
PEOPLE Always say you know what to do when your child cries, you just know, like some parent gene kicks in, the knowledge springs up in your brain like it’s always been there, a priori knowledge. But that’s a load of bullshit. Watch a baby fall backwards and drop a chair on herself. You see the chair going but you can’t get there in time to stop it, and you can’t control the gasp that escapes you. You’re not supposed to gasp, have to remain calm so that the child does. And when there’s nothing, nothing, nothing that calms her after the fall—walking, talking, hugging, singing, kissing—you know your love is not strong enough now for anyone, that you are what you are, failure of a parent, and you know this is your life now….
Aphrodite’s Revenge: Two Poems by Madison Culpepper
Even Aphrodite Has Lazy Days I apologize for the days I don’t wear make-up or dress in tight gowns, and for the days I don’t try to seduce a man to feel worthy. I used to bathe myself in lavender to attract men. Right now, I’m tired and alone. My confidence wilts when I don’t plaster my face with a glow brighter than the sun. Today, I’m lying beneath blankets in nothing but sweats and skin. My hair is tied into a bun, purple scoops under my eyes. I wish a man could see that even without my highlight I’m still beautiful. Most days, I may appear like the pink sunsets pouring into violet streams. But beneath the gloss and glow and goddess sheen, I’m just a woman, a person. Someone who is more than vanity. And with my face bare, I hope my soul can finally shine, lilac light blooming freely through my skin after all this time. Citrus Grief Rows of oranges make a masterpiece in…
The Women: Poems by Stephen Jackson
The Back of Trudy’s Head Everything, at once came to Trudy on the bus, the world through a window smeared with hair grease came in clear, she looked around at all the other passengers and knew us — felt our tension in her shoulders, drew a breath of body odor, smelled our fear. And the thick, pink man who sat ahead of Trudy leaned back to scratch his mat of ratted graying hair releasing flakes of skin down his back and in the air, then turned to smile a crooked-tooth smile at himself in the window, that at night is both a window and a mirror. Trudy pulled the cord to make the driver stop, as it was all that she could think to do, and when he did the doors swung open but Trudy could not get off — no one did but…
The Resilience of Life – Captivating Poetry by Marianne Brems
Flower Stems If heaven were a place to walk without fear before an audience jaded in judgement, a place to love without concern about running alone on earth’s curve, a place to rise in the morning without tripping on stones by evening, a place to play in dangerous rivers without swallowing water, a place to carry wood to a fire that never burns out, a place to throw out regrets with the dust swirls of empty rooms A place where traffic lights are all green, the sun sets peacefully after dinner, and sleeves are never too short. Then resilience would wither, muscles atrophy, bones relinquish their density without resistance to strengthen them in a field where flowers fill every space and their stems, though succulent, are the sturdiest pillars. Night Siren The too near wail of an ambulance assaults the quiet core of night, its rising then falling crescendo repeating repeating unsettling all that’s settled as it announces an unidentified human incident rife with pain or loss or both. Yet this ambulance, defying disruption and speed limits, delivers with singular purpose a medical team eager to serve, to make whole, to mend the punctures of sharp protrusions or the malfunction of a dusty heart and to begin a restitution that even in darkness has…