for: J.A.F.
Saturday, January 21, 2023
Friday, January 20, 2023
Wyatt Underwood
bewitching
Radomir Vojtech Luza
Somewhere near Moscow blue
Sunday, January 15, 2023
Denise Dumars
Heart Line
When palmistry espies
a curved heart line
pointing to the index finger,
it says romantic, psychic, easily hurt.
So tell me something
I don’t know. Like,
what if little red flowers
grew along the heart line
and a big bad wolf came along
and ate them
and then Grandma arrived
babuschka on her head
machete in her hand
and she chased the big bad wolf
back into the forest
said, “Whew, glad that’s over,”
and those little flower stems left
through the heart line
that we recognize as scars—
well, that’s the price
of doing business
if you’re romantic, psychic,
easily hurt.
Lorelei Kay
Guarder of the Nectar
The
green-throated hummingbird
perches
on a branch near the patio
feeder,
providing daily company
as
I peruse my morning paper.
As
other hummers fly close,
they
are quickly chased
away
in a blur of flight
by
the defending sentinel.
Hour
after hour, day after day,
he
guards his territory, bolting
after
any intruder who might
threaten
his personal supply.
Lori Wall-Holloway
Smile
with Love
(Dedicated to Baby Miles)
Wide
toothless grin
of
six-month-old baby
brightens
gloomy day
His
laughter and efforts
at
conversation
using his
own expressive
language
demonstrates
a love for
people and life
only a
smiling infant
can teach
Realization
High
School Drama
Alone
On stage
I begin
to speak -
“O Romeo,
Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
As I recite
Juliet’s love
lines, a
part of me wonders
if a young
man is in
my future
with the ability
to show heartfelt
care
TV shows
formed fantasies
of how
relationships
should be,
but inexperience
caused me
to walk away
from a
genuine love
waiting
on the sidelines
Instead,
I chose a path
with
someone else
that did
not turn out
how I expected
Would I
go back to those dark days
to decide
differently?
Or would other
kinds of heartaches
transpire
to shape me?
Like a cabinet
being sanded
to the
real wood
or a
butterfly pushing out
of a
cocoon
I realize
no matter what
decision
was made
trials would
still
occur to peel
layer after
layer of
myself to reach
the
person I have become
Saturday, January 14, 2023
Trevor Witt
We need more poets
We need more poets,
To battle bullets unafraid,
To speak with words as shields,
To use stories as spears,
To cut beneath the pain.
To rush into the war with verses,
To break trauma’s curses,
To end cycle after cycle of violence,
To provide healing as recompense,
To reconcile humanity with the vile,
We need writers to right the wrongs
That hurt so hard they can only be sung in songs,
We need to pause, to take a breath,
To carry on through tears and death.
We need words, to bear our burdens,
To shoulder our fears, until the final curtain.
We need people to feel,
We need words to heal.
Plain walls (born of tears and love)
Plain walls,
That children never drew on,
Carpets which never saw dirt,
Clean rooms,
Everything put away,
Closets with clothes unworn,
Boxes of crap,
Records never heard,
Notebooks of stories never shared,
This is not the home I seek,
A shiny, unblemished mansion, chic.
This is not the room I rent,
Where every penny is spent.
I want dirt and pain and striving,
To reach for my dream,
Born of tears and love.
What use do I have for love poems?
What use do I have for love poems?
They cannot capture the warmth of your embrace.
They cannot recreate the lines of your face.
They cannot lend an ear when I am falling apart.
They cannot console me when I have a hole in my
heart.
What use do I have for love poems?
They will only let me down,
As I close the pages of my feelings,
What use do I have for fairy tales?
They only break your heart.
Hedy Habra
The Way a Flock of Birds Improvises
To Rosemary (1952-1998)
She marks the calendar every day
now, believes we should live life
as a miracle.
No one notices the difference
in her chest.
She reminds me, smiling:
"You once said
I was flat as an ironing board."
I wonder if we should live love
as a miracle,
when your lover slips into a coat of mail
of indifference,
when his eyes only reflect an inward vision,
when your heartbeat espouses his,
the way healthy people
grow unaware
of their own pulse.
Then take every moment,
imperfect as it seems,
its dissonant echo,
transforming it into a score
the way a flock of birds improvises,
over barbed wires.
First published by Sulphur Literary Review
Face à face
After
Flying Blind by Jaclyn Alderete
When with eyes
closed, I face the mirror of desolation, I see myself
as a dove fluttering
in slow motion like a still mirage while I walk the
desert dunes,
wondering where I’d last seen the scarce palm trees still
erect by the
smothered tents where all the ones I’ve ever loved are
now buried. I search
for ashes shrouded in sand, and only see
through half-open
lids feathers the color of my hair, lidless eyes
staring at their
mirrorless reflection, lips pursed in triangular silence,
and oh, yes, how can
I omit those metallic blue shades making us all
one, woman and fowl, in love and loss?
First published by The Bitter Oleander
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
Desert Song
After
The Kiss by Federico Zarco
It all started when he set out in his suit and tie,
searching for a sand
rose in the desert. Wandering through dream’s
thresholds, he hoped
to unearth a treasure that would resist the drought
of feelings, each
millenary facet telling of the innumerable ways
love can be
immortalized. He must have taken a wrong turn since
all he found,
erect like a menhir, was a fossil. Was it the hip
of a dinosaur, or
rather a Titan’s, lost from times beyond memory, so
smoothed by
the scorching sun that it bore no signs? Looking
closely he saw an
open jaw with pointed teeth and a hole where an eye
once stared. He
feared he had to return empty handed in time for
his date, but
realized with terror that he had no recollection of
the path that led
him there.
First published by Danse Macabre
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
Jordan Sandoval
Zombie
the corpse of a man
in perpetual motion
wandering
but not aimless
driven by raw, instinctual need,
compelled to consume
searching for the way
to sate that one
single craving
to live again
I am a zombie
for I am without my heart
until I am with you again
Gia Civerolo
I REMEMBER ...
I remember the loud band screaming their song
I remember shouting my story though no was listening but you
I remember they lit the bar on fire
I remember the sheer black and white polka dot shirt I was wearing
and the white mini skirt with fishnet house and combat boots
I remember you were wearing a 40’s paisley tie with a black shirt
and black pants and your hair slicked back 50’s style with matching sideburns
I remember sitting on top of a cigarette vending machine with my legs
crossed and a bird’s eye view
I remember you helping my friend who is not my friend anymore
carry her drums placing them gently in the car
I remember the smoke-filled room with bodies dancing
I remember you were quick with a light and a smile
I remember our friends that were there
I remember my black cat eye liner was smeared in a punk rock way
I remember I had a crush on your friend who seemed like my type but
even more shocking I was his type too (no one ever thinks they are someone
else's type)
I remember we talked and talked even though I don’t remember what
we said
I remember thinking you were a “nice” guy, but I don’t remember
knowing then that you would be my forever….
I can’t find the
words to talk to you
I send secret messages
in a bottle
red lipstick sealed
beaten by ocean waves
foaming words
out of Aphrodite’s head
MANHATTAN BEACH
Walking by the sea
the day changes
the clouds mirror
the waves
The sun starts to set
taking on colors
painter wishes
they knew
Horizon stretching
going further than
perception
Still, all I can do
is think of you
and me
like there is
nothing
else in between
Alicia Mathias
for: J.A.F. MY LATE GRANDMOTHER'S LONG-LOST PEARL returns to its setting
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TO MY GRANDMA ON HER 90TH BIRTHDAY My grandma is a mensch in a world gone farklempt. She’s learned some Czech words. Some Spanish words. Man...
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bewitching I don't think I shall ever see a poem as wicked as your eyes that danced and glanced and hypnotized and seemed to look at fan...