Etiqueta: poetry
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«Shoes» by R James Sennett Jr
Shoes at one timeweren’t worn.Grass, dirt and rocksscratched, cut and bruisedbutwas expected.Shoes skipped into our livesand like language,eventually became contractedand constrained.Ironicas they were meantto be more.Kids peel off shoesat the drop of a hat.They knowbecause they’re closerto the ground. Copyright © 2025 R James Sennett JrAll Rights Reserved
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The New Old People by Gerald Yelle
They want to know why the weeks all start with broken eggs. Well, maybe it’s the way their horses snicker. They blame the rider, but I say it’s the chickens. Neither feels right. It’s like our number sense is disconnected. They say it’s the end of one chapter and the…
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«bustling» by O.P. Jha
listen, behold, recognizeit’s a sparkit’s a splashit’s a seasoned timberit’s multifacetedit’s standing straight before the crownsboiled in a clay-pot,transformed into vapordiffused in the airand intermingled with the clouds,with the rainit mixed with the soilit grew in the womb of the Earthsprouted with green cropsmetamorphosed into grainsand became the life-breathsof floras…
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The Other Side by Laura Bennett
Image by Kevin from The Beginning at Last The time has come, I did my best Upon my final day of rest To live this life just one more time An older soul in body and mind Served my purpose, conscience clear Hearing the whisper of spirits near Calming peace…
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“Tanka” by Wayne F. Burke
night dark as burnt toastI would not eat thoughGrandma insisted burnttoast good formy teeth Copyright © 2025 Wayne F. BurkeAll Rights Reserved
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«The sticky web» by Ken Tomaro
8 am on Tuesdayand I’m eating a bowl of cerealwatching a spider suck the soul out of a mothbefore he wraps it in a cocoonseems like we’ll both have a busy day Copyright © 2025 Ken TomaroAll Rights Reserved
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«MY MOTHER’S LOVER» by Kabir Deb
The house trembles with my breath,signing off the head. Paradingthrough those tiny squaredwindows. My mother loves a strangeman. He feeds on her breath,sleeps on her thighs. She patientlytightens the legs when he asksfor it, and quickly broadens herheart to hold him close! I think of the man like a lie.Often…
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«Looking for Father» by Ma Yongbo
My mother passed away in the summer.I was at sea in the summer.The waves of freedom were endlessly spreading towards the horizon.Butterflies traveled with the ship, often landing on the ship’s side. After a long time, I returned to land.My brothers and sisters were busy packing our luggage.They didn’t tell…
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«Decaf Espresso» by Gary D. Grossman
Words thatshould nevercomingle—insentence or cup. Copyright © 2025 Gary D. GrossmanAll Rights Reserved
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soul stabbing wounds by Bogdan Dragos
“Isn’t it odd?” she would say, “that as a writer your father has such a limited vocabulary when speaking to us, his family?” Yes, mother. That is very odd. I don’t know how it came to be this way… The boy would only think of these words, never utter them…
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«after work» by John Yamrus
icome home, walkinto the kitchen and throw my wallet onthe counter. thenmy pens, mycards andfinally mykeys, whichslide along the counter, spin,do a little dance and finallycome to a stop. some day so willi. Copyright © 2025 John YamrusAll Rights Reserved
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«Sprezzatura» by Pete Mladinic
Nonchalance, like Jeter robbing a hitfrom Suzuki at short in Seattle,an away-game, making it look easy;like an Ester Willams water balletin an early 40s flick, bodies like flowers,three rehearsals for one shot. I thought it was ease under pressure.What you don’t have,not you, dear reader, necessarily,but a you who goes…
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Untitled by Mehran Hashemi
the bird and my heartfeel each otheras they long for freedomone from the cageand the otherfrom the ribcage Copyright © 2025 Mehran HashemiAll Rights Reserved
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Forest for the Trees (a Return) by Laura Bennett
Image by Kevin from The Beginning at Last Returning to the forest After a long while Rustling breeze of trees Always make me smile The first time I came Among season of Spring With deep green leaves And blue birds that sing Now darker upon Autumn The air is mysterious …
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A TAP LEFT RUNNING by Gregg Norman
Feeling farmerish in a flat deck FordBut there is a novel on the seatAbout the way dogs thinkI wouldn’t show it to my neighborLest he think me a transplanted fool Sign at the well says if you drink thisWe won’t be responsibleBut town water is yellow with treatmentsThis community well waterIs…
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THE DOOR by Carl Scharwath
{A story poem} In the quiet of twilight, where the edges of dreams blur with reality, an old man stands before a door. It is not just any door; it is the door. Weathered wood, splintered by time, and hinges rusted with a forgotten life. The door stands as a sentinel…
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