Home  Poetry + Prose
|
|
Written by Tom Sheehan
|
Getting Crushed That Side of Midnight,
Two Roads Taken One at A Time,
Dimensions of A barrier,
Two-Dream Tommy
by Tom Sheehan
And always it is this Gift-giver, this woman from the
other side of midnight, this darkness that is not taken
from. And she comes in pieces, trajectories, soft angles
and planes, curves from a world galore I look for in
this, her classroom of touch, taste, and sleek terrors
wherein she says, Hello, Two-Dream Tommy, here
are dimensions of a barrier, the two roads you must
take one at a time if you’re meeting me and getting
crushed that side of midnight. Oh, is she north of me
or south, breathing yet or not, an image impossible
to see, yet I would bet on her on either road I find.
Lo, I speak out to her and dream of her, spraddled,
urgent, these two parts of unspeakable darkness.
Do they have to mean or what become?
|
|
Read more... [Getting Crushed That Side of Midnight]
|
|
Written by Tom Sheehan
|
At four, near dawn, resident with trees, a mountain’s
wind song, a moon that clashed with clouds perky
as lambs, friends loving behind me though six feet
apart at times, I pissed off the wide porch down into
the unknown, that good talking beer talking good
again, crisply, this way and that, on the quick glass
of leaves. The sound stole, even for a moment, all
the moon and the cool threat of snow.
|
|
Read more... [Apple Pine Mountain]
|
|
Written by Tom Sheehan
|
I.
Listen.
The mercury
Is resolved.
Beneath
My hand the Earth
Passes a quick shadow,
Recollects
The distinction
Of a breath.
|
|
Read more... [Ultimatum to A Friend]
|
|
Written by Rachel Eagle Reiter
|
In Love with America [by Rachel Eagle Reiter]
Not that it should be
Considered a crime
But it is not clear
Why Americans
Would burn the Beautiful
Red, White and Blue
Flag of the USA
|
|
Read more... [In Love with America]
|
|
Written by Sylvie Morgan Flatow
|
Skirts, Heels, Books [by Sylvie Morgan Flatow]
If she didn't look so sexy
reading in skirts and heels,
she'd probably stop and save it
for the privacy of her own bedroom or
the Brooklyn Heights Promenade
late at night
lit up
only
by the city's skyline.
But really -
she loved watching people watch her. |
|
Read more... [Skirts, Heels, Books]
|
|
Written by Shaunte Shayde
|
Lady Liberty [by Shaunte Shayde]
NY is beautiful. She has holes and rust. She beats and bleeds stronger than any city that I’ve ever known. She is strength. She is truth, and if you can’t face her she’ll break you. Respect her liberty. It’s yours.
NY is filled with hungry people. We hunger for the glory that she’s given us, and that hunger will only stop when our apple hearts stop beating. We beat for more, we bleed for life. NY.
|
|
Read more... [Lady Liberty]
|
|
Written by S. Donovan Mullaney
|
Alleyways [by S. Donovan Mullaney]
The city has replaced the gunshots
and caged walkways of Cabrini Green
with a Home Design store, condominiums,
and a convention center.
In the shuttered gray-brown valleys that remain
behind the stone and glass
storefronts and housing blocks,
the old New World loiters dreamless
twenty feet from light.
|
|
Read more... [Alleyways]
|
|
Written by S. Donovan Mullaney
|
|
Local Geography [by S. Donovan Mullaney]
Saturdays, my grandfather collected our garbage
in the back of his battered blue Dodge.
During my summer visits, we’d drive
ten miles to the landfill.
No radio, no tape deck,
no air conditioning. No—
Keep it simple, Stupid.
That mountain grew,
fattened by five towns,
bulldozers lifting and separating the refuse.
Engineers planted pipes for escaping methane
as our material history
decomposed in the earth. |
|
Read more... [Local Geography]
|
|
Written by S. Donovan Mullaney
|
Chief Sunday’s Squaw [by S. Donovan Mullaney[
“Get up, get up,” my mother said, “Chief Sunday’s
Squaw is dead. Dig a hole in the yard.”
Tuesday morning we buried the llama.
I couldn’t close Sunday’s eyes all the way,
but three tugs softened her death stare.
A final shearing so mother could make a scarf
for my stepfather: “She’ll keep him warm when
chemotherapy makes him cold.” |
|
Read more... [Chief Sunday’s Squaw]
|
|
Written by Pearl Dusenbery
|
Why did you leave
When I was just starting to believe
In a thing called best friends
Just as we get started it all ends
|
|
Read more... [Our Last Fight]
|
|
Written by Matthew Phillippe Michaud
|
|
Tango [by Matthew Phillippe Michaud]
A dream awakens me to an ominous azure sky. Sumptuous clouds hop like potato sacks with invisible children in them. Then it hits me like a fist sized bee sting. Thwack! Thwack! My back numbs, my hands praise in a caught thief’s pose. Prostrated in the sky by the claws of formal reasoning. Blood runs from my wrists, hot it tastes the air, but it cools so quickly. Slowing as it blobs down to my elbows: Drip, drip. I can both think in English, French and gibberish; but, how is it that I can think black? Can I think in Japanese or Thai? I have always thought only in English and white. Yet here I am, chained to a tree. Whips slash at my back, a ground beef Jesus I imagine. A cringing slave to what? I hear the mumbles of a southern man calling me nigger and no good! Yet I see my feet and I can see that crusty crimson blood clings to pale white feet. |
|
Read more... [Tango]
|
| << Start < Prev 1 2 3 4 5 6 Next > End >>
| | Results 61 - 72 of 72 |
|
|
|
