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Geoffrey Clay
I only started writing poetry a few years ago, less as a serious foray into creative writing and more as a means by which to put on paper a number of things I wanted to forget (all of it rather pedestrian in hindsight). I was bolstered by what F. Scott…
Laurel Blossom
Laurel Blossom's most recent book of poetry is The Papers Said (Greenhouse Review Press, 1993). Earlier books include What's Wrong (Cobham & Hatherton Press, 1987) and Any Minute (Greenhouse Review Press, 1979). Her work has appeared in a number of anthologies, and in national journals including Poetry, The American Poetry…
From L.A. to New York, Cadiz, Marseilles, Frankfurt, London…
you see them on buses heads bobbing with fatigue as they ride one hour or more each way to jobs in garment shops in electronics factories in meatpacking plants in old people's homes in construction cleanup mopping hospital rooms making hospital beds as domestic servants as busboys as dishwashers as…
Tamar Diana Wilson
Tamar Diana Wilson has published poems and/or short stories in Struggle, Thema, Blue Mesa Review, Saturday Afternoon Journal, and Anthropology & Humanism, and in a volume edited by Terry Wolverton. Her collection of one poem and six short stories, entitled Tales from Colonia Popular, will be published in 2009 by…
Return to Mount Ayliff’s Childhood Home
Dust, like parchments of ancient skin Covers the lopsided garden gate. The familiar sidewalks Now unfamiliar, etched in weeds and concrete cracks. Yet the artifacts I remember my life by I try rebuilding Stone upon stone. Rose garden, oak and maple trees Climbing tough and twisted branches A cat on…
Hickory Dickory Dock
Along the harbour it stands White-faced, in a deep puzzle. Tick, tock, tick sweeps its black hands Spontaneously as usual. Mounted there it does not comprehend When it has become suddenly special. Splashed by waves, confronted with gales, For decades it stations at the dock. Hickory, dickory, dock. Hickory, dickory,…
The Attic
Slats of sunlight peek through the high narrow window Shadows fall on an ancient rocking chair It creaks like an arthritic joint As she sits, rocks slowly Surveys the crowded, cramped space It seems smaller somehow Tiny dust particles dance to a silent tune The hazy light against the dark…
The Assembled Waiters
We all sit and wait. We wait in a room designed for waiting. We wait for our names to be called. Some wait nervously, fidgeting and checking their watches. Some wait patiently, reading old magazines. Some even doze off to sleep. But we all wait. We sit on chairs not…
Do Not Be Kind to Robots That Love Humans
You say, “Poor dears, they can't help it.” True. But how much sympathy should you spend on machines that act like a remote lawnmower? They lack the introspection circuits to examine and recode their core directions to more objective ends. Their course is set, their path pre-programmed. They follow automatically…
Another Street, Filled with Too Much Rain
Only time can seal the divide Between us now, the space That gapes At all the wrong things in the way, The unspeakable disagreement That has replaced The face of love I used to see Everytime we met. Now, just another street Filled with too much rain To take the…
Max West
For Landon
Who died before the Madden Basketball Playoffs Punch the buttons on the phone. Halfway through I forget You can't play Madden Basketball today so I do. Set on two-player I play your game for you. I think you let me win again. Pull into your driveway just to see how…
Aline Taylor
Remembering Miss Baker
Evelyn Baker, now enthroned in the pantheon of great English teachers, stood straight as a declarative sentence in front of our class. Not uncomely, but not beautiful, yet not without form, she was slim, maybe one size up from petite. A proper noun without modifiers. Everyday she wore a long-sleeved…
Seawoman’s Caribbean Writing Opps
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Tiferet Writing Contest
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Explaining the D to You
It sprouts like bindweed or rattlebox across a field and covers anything decent between us, like the seasonal burnings where only smoke and ash exist over the once fruitful yield. The harvest will rise without us, or perhaps, despite us. The geometry of barns equates a mathematics we choose to…
M.E. Silverman
My Mother Spoke Volumes
I. My mother told me stories when I was young the cadence of her voice is what I remember when I grew up my mother told me stories in a single sentence she spoke volumes in that short space one day she waxed nostalgic over suitors that came to her…
Norma Roth
Signature
Bruised with dirt, The light-green Goose-pimpled wall Supports a lonely Slanted oil painting, Thick embossed Gilt covered frame, Quietly peeling. Seascape of Blue curling waves Breaking, White tipped. Driftwood, spongy seaweed, And broken shells Scattered on the grainy shore. A pair of seagulls, Puffed up, crops bulging, Perch contently on…
Suspended, February 8, 2007
It was blue today when I left the grocery store. My blue car was blueberry. Green cars were teal. Red cars were purple. Everything white was a watery milk-blue. I stood in a painting. A layer of steel slicked the street. The underside of each leaf on every tree was…
Elizabeth Pessl-Rossi
Dance With Me
It is frustrating trying to lure this fearful fellow to the floor: He lurks in crooked corners uncertain whether to stay or stray. Why will he not depart if he cannot anticipate and participate? I was occupied, consistent and content until he consumed me With this tripping tune that tremendously…
Glory Odemene
Crimson Lady
I An iridescent cherry-colored wanderer lingered on the bedroom windowsill. She displayed pepper sprinkle spots and feasted on the fruit flies that stowed away with the market's jade pears. The lady beetle crawled across the sill, climbing over last winter's neglected cobwebs. (So many more important things to do than…
Heather Nicaise
In the Dark
I'm having this problem, see, changing a light bulb in the ceiling the ladder is a bit wobbly, the window too close to the ladder, so I flatten the ladder against the wall but then I can't reach the light bulb, I could stand on the counter but I might…
Coffee House Confessions by Ellaraine Lockie
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Mimi Moriarty
My Sweater
Like an old ghost, empty Rumpled, collar and hem askew, My brown sweater lies Forgotten on a chair A sleeve, drooping down, Throws a shadow like a bruise On the rug The cuff rolled back, where Your small, tender arm poked out When the sweater Was full of you When…
Grape Vine Dream
By the westward-facing wall of home, A tunnel of grapes on a green summer's day In brown paper bags to ward off the bees. Anointed by hedge clippings, dusk gathered round— Wheel barrow pushed to a backyard of dreams Past a red cement veranda where ants up and down. One…
Peter Endersbee
Sunshine on a Wooden Floor
Women with scarves used their hands to spin thoughts about wordless pains things beneath the register of speech matters of rhythm and tone couched in the language of books and reflection jokes about “shrinking womens crumpet” tea and the beauty of the room armoured a little against the hurts attended…
Ollie Ollie Oxen Free
The short concrete road's irregular wrinkles, made more visible by tar patches across its face, goes straight to the dead-end fence. Fifty years of grumbling trucks, toting filled lugs and boxes to and from the factories lining its distance, have taken the toll. All nostalgia is cached in the soil…
Jackie Richmond
This is one of the most memorable things that has happened to me! Thank you. I am a retired teacher (K-12) and retired art gallery owner in a rural town in the Mother Lode of California. Mountain Ranch is a lovely little town in the Sierra Nevada Foothills of California.…
Somebody Else
I have no name, My mirrored reflection Is unknown. The grey un-liberating eyes That stare back at me Are not mine. Even the prominent beauty spot On my upper lip I do not recognize. With the voice of a stranger I speak And I scream with a scream Which is…
Meryl Raw
I am a 47-year-old married woman with three children, the financial director of a Mercedes Benz dealership in the small country town of Kokstad in South Africa. I love reading and writing poetry, am inspired by the things of nature, and love the outdoors. I published Footprints, an anthology of…
Here
Here air is sweet granite heaves breath is dry and water falls wet. I come here to remember what's forgotten. Lay my body down yield to roundness empty my asphalt heart until she is somehow full. Only me tonight in the company of stars Trees press tall against the sky…
Jennifer Perry
Vino Rosso
My mother said Mussolini was good because he made everyone throw their pigs out of the house and made sure everyone got pasta every day but no meat. By then the pigs had all been slaughtered to feed the army. In the garden behind her shack, broccoli withered in the…
Alicia Patti
Gentile
You make me wish I was born a Jew…like you… To be part of a larger tribe Knowing your roots, proud and unwavering Faith in all you are, knowing you were chosen I have only…my childhood Catholicism Incense, wine and bread wafers That tasted like styrofoam Sticking to the roof…
The Bushel
I am a lamp. I am a candle, light To the nations—of the deaf and dumb. And He has set me, under His bushel, Damped, dark, deprived—but not of light. What man would light a lamp, and set It under a bucket, or a bushel? On A lamp-stand, maybe, on…
Freedom Song
As swiftly As she'd slipped away, She suddenly returned. Amidst opulent surrounds, In travel weary clothes With five dollars of wealth, Old brown leather suitcase, Of dreams and aspirations She carried with her Wherever she went, Her lonely hungry, Cold, body hugging seat Of many thumb beseeching Trans border stops,…
Second Oldest of Seven
She was the second oldest of seven— the oldest girl— four brothers two sisters. They were the children not seen in “American Gothic.” Two others died in infancy before she was born— both girls— I don't know if that would have made the difference. I saw an old browned photograph…
Ballad of Christmas Present
(A true story) Christmas is a happy time, with children all aglow, Thinking of toys and holiday joys, Santa and Mistletoe; The girls of dolls and clothes and such, boys of trucks and horns They know will be beneath the tree on early Christmas morn. Yet there are children in…
Jerry Betts
I was educated in engineering and business and spent twenty years in the Army—serving all about. After retirement I went into business as a manager, then as a consultant. I have always enjoyed writing and when retirement time came around I knew that there was enough there to keep me…
From This Desk
From the desk at which I sit and bring beauty through these hands, this brush, onto the paper into the world, the corner of my eye observes the wind flipflop a tablecloth on the other side of my heart, a friend whose son is dying, a poet who had a…
In the Whit’ning of Day
My toes sink into the black spongy moist humus unleashing earth's breath, as the Greenwood lays morning's first mist upon my canoe and face. We become as one in the whit'ning of day. I paddle slow and let the pink lily pads kiss my canoe. On the wing a redwing…
