Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry

Five Poems by María C. Domínguez

Infamous famousMaria

just another day in this moulding city
sitting between aseptic blue
row on row of the naked tube tattooed infamous for the day headlines say
naked me they could see but I dreamed my limbs dressed and pure
robed in gold sturdy my chest embraced my dignity best
Warrior-old famous down to the soul I waged a regal war
free to do as I ruled among metal city where my feet are dignified with dirt
and heroes shit

Out

Last summer
he left at siesta time
when the air puffs clouds of steam
the city floats and
dead flowers dream
astonished insects bang around and
no one sees nobody
sins are dormant.
His mouth full of words
he left the bed
unmade pillows, repentance ruffled, dragging a duffle bag
back leaving a grubby trail.

Thriller frills

Crumpled brown bags. Cigarette packs blown in. Street Lamp corner. Jazz monologue. White drizzled black. Heels soundtrack. Moist fog-rain. Debris swiped again. Flaked marble. Sinking grey. Doorknob. Curtain twitch. Heap pushed against a wall. Torn silver dribbling blood.


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Poetry

Yuan Changming ~ Six Poems

Greenish IronyYuan-Changming

You wish to be a Douglas fir
Tall, straight, almost immortal
But you stand like a Peking willow
Prone to cankers, full of twisted twigs

Worse still, you are not so resistant
As the authentic willow that can bend gracefully
Shake off all its unwanted leaves in autumn
When there is a wind blowing even from nowhere

No matter how much sunshine you receive
During the summer, you have nothing but scars
To show off against winter storms
The scars that you can never shake off

Visualizing

Above the water
The swan looks so elegant
Pure and noble

Beneath the surface
Its feet are paddling hard
Like an ugly duck

But invisible as they are
You can also imagine them
Like the wings of a white eagle

The wings that are flapping
Fiercely against currents
Ready to fly into the depth of season

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Poetry

Fredric Koeppel ~ Three Poems

The Vanity of Self-LoathingFrederic-Koeppel

Exhausted by a discontent disguised as modesty,
I dream that I am Achilles, hero who thinks too much.
Confined to our anchorage of dust, we fix small pinions
to large claims and call innocence what we have lost.

Then the dream of a woman sitting in a restaurant,
naked, save for the cobwebs wreathing her shoulders
and face; appetite and terminus, she comes to tell me
that we don’t want to know the names the dead give us.

Dusk again, and night’s blank facets breeding pangs.
I dismiss the full moon’s pious obligations and offer
myself to sleep as one might be set down at a station
in a wilderness, trembling with grief like a just-flung knife.

Midnight Hour

If I could scrape the crusted salt
from the face of Lot’s wife and free
from the corner of her blue eye
the single tear that would redeem
the cities of shame, then perhaps
I could make you believe what seems
impossible to explain. Dear sleep,
spare me last night’s dream of grieving

Mary’s walking in a furnace, treading
flames. A shout from the street below
rips wattage from our hearts, and the dog
slumped at my feet lifts his hot black face
and barks three times, as if the world’s errors
required his reproof. When the crooked
have been made straight, Lord, let my anger
inherit the earth.

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Poetry

L. Ward Abel ~ Five Poems

Artifacts from the Endl.ward-abel

Having excavated the apocalypse, noting
a careful sedimentation with trowels
and toothbrushes,
I stumbled on the end.

They said it would. End. Some
of my friends had put away
so they could eat at a rapturous
banquet.

And many days I felt as if I should
listen to the horses listen to
the water to the rails
for reverb

but I always found myself
taking deep breaths and
remembering things associated
with being grounded.

Auden’s Icarus

There precarium march
with no roots to bury
seem certain of something,
seem fixed on thin air.

The smell of pine twisting,
the hill where it crossed over,
belie lines of power
whom they still believe.

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Poetry

Matt Bialer ~ A Poem

SILVER GHOSTMatt-Bialer

A VISIT FROM A RELATIVE

A middle aged slender woman
And her husband
Enter Beth Israel Medical Center
First Avenue and 11th Street
Manhattan

1100 bed hospital

Saint Laurent Marmot noir fur coat
Long sleeved sequined mini-dress

Husband in a Tom Ford suit
Gray stripes
Jacquard stitching

Approach front desk

I am here
To see a patient

– Can I have the patient’s name?

Francine Powell

– Hmm, are you sure
-That is the name?

Of course I am sure
She is my relative

She is my great aunt Fannie

– There is no one registered
– By that name

– Perhaps you have
-The wrong hospital

This is the right hospital
In fact until today

I did not know
That she’s been here for twenty years

Twenty years!

Is she sick?
What’s wrong with her?

An administrator
Approaches the desk

– Why do you
– Want to see Ms. Powell?

She’s my Aunt Fannie
And none of her family

Knows that she lives here

– She does not allow visitors

It’s a hospital
Patients have visitors

– Madam does not allow visitors

Let’s go home Grace
We tried

I’m not going anywhere Daniel
Until I see my aunt

Turns to the Administrator

We need to know
That she’s ok

She’s our blood
She’s our blood

Area on third floor
Set aside

For our special patient

Concierge service
Flat screen TV

In room sleep sofas
For family members

Grace and Daniel
Knock on the door

Private night nurse Maddie
Greets them

Jamaican lady

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Poetry

Corey Mesler ~ Three Poems

Praying to the Silent GodCOREY-MESLER

One does not use words.
One breathes.
In the center of breath
there is a light.
In the center of light
there is a heart.
Keep praying without
answers.
Answers are breath,
light, heart, as true as
vapor, as frangible as skin.

 

Weekend Alone

“Strange: inability to be alone, inability not to be alone.
One accepts both. Both profit.” ~Albert Camus

Left alone for the weekend
I do not have to answer to
anyone but my bowels
and my dog. I am forced to
find reserves for the
emptiness. I have reserves.
In the morning I am gray
as a babe carved in stone,
but at night, before I turn
out the light, I am alive like
any enlightened dying thing.

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Poetry

Mark Young ~ Five Poems

A Line from Charles DarwinMark-Young

The symptoms of chickenpox
are descended from a long line
of priests, can lie dormant in the
sensory nervous system for years

simply by beating their tails from
side to side. By observing facts
through pre-sight neural tissue that
originally came from Africa, they

have reconciled with the heritage
of that fossil xylophone which gave
the family its name. Gene Kelly
plays the Larry Parks role superbly.

Fata Morgana

We’re sorry, but Cape
Tribulation’s weather
report is unavailable
right now. All of our
staff are out shoveling
snow in the federal
government’s under-
ground nuclear waste
repository in south-
eastern New Mexico.

±

F. Engels has been
studying bellydance
since 1997. At this time
he has on black form-
fitting ankle-length
leggings softened by
silkscreened images
of famous public
buildings, but access-
orized with fluoro
hydro-thermal vent
areas on the sides.

±

To finish the week-
end off, dinner with
some old friends &,
after, this amazing
gelato made from
an all natural
Russian karaoke
machine formerly
owned by the KGB
but now pensioned
off & living a quiet
life east of Omsk.

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Poetry

Matt Hetherington ~ Five Poems

Matt-Hetherington

It, Again

like a child, naturally
you want to make it new

to make it
powerful or pretty

and be done with it
before it’s ready to be free

so you keep it inside
and lord it over it

like you’re the god
that you don’t believe in

Temporary Like America

it doesn’t rhyme with miracle
or austria or shit or luck or failure
it’s as lonesome as a guitar with only one string

oh my lil ol bittersweet juice-sucker
through the racket of your brave sad gladness
hear me typing to ya

and i have to tell you that you did wrong
and cos you haven’t learnt to dig yuhself
you’re as likely to say sorry as a baby, baby

you can deny it later
and pay for it in neverland
when you’re as empty inside as a dead cop’s wallet

everybody knows america is everywhere
but not everyone knows this is nowhere
and you’re like totally like not

not hot not cool not here not there
a simpering goddess sipping gossip
but just before you die

you will suddenly be very young

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