Tag: poet

lake effect snow – r. gerry fabian

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0 0 lake effect

You come up from bayou country
all skinny and tanned
with your herbal teas
and crushed roots
warning of magic voodoo spells
in an accent barely understandable.

This is western Pennsylvania
where hex signs are powerful
and pig iron and slag
heat muscles forged from steel.
The people here
eat scrapple and pierogies
for breakfast
and
dance in blizzards
just to entertain themselves.

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R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and published poetry book, Parallels are available at Smashwords and all other ebook stores. Seventh Sense, his third novel has been published by Smashwords. His second book of published poems, Coming Out Of The Atlantic is slated for publication in 2019.

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growing a pair (of horns) – heidi gonzalez

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horns

I know how to survive
With rats scattered in the attic
Of my head space
I know how to survive
Without a drop of body in water
From the end of a week to chapter 24 of a book
I know how to survive
With people pulling my hair
Spitting in my face because they hate that I am
.
.
.
Can I write myself an end where
Everyone disappears and
Is it possible to write a scene
Where the little girl grows horns
To keep herself safe
From harm
99 highways
99 pathways to take.
I can cross every single one
Letting the ocean wave
Send me on a different way
Past mountains of straw
[*Missing the green parts
Past whining bitches
Who never get enough of spitting in my hair]

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Heidi Miranda is a poet that writes about LGBT issues as well as the fight to balance mental health and the ongoing journey of self discovery. Her work is soon to be featured in Harvard’s newsletter, Palabritas. She is currently working on a novel and is active on social media [Instagram: @weepingblueberry].

photo: Vincent Erhart via Unsplash

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candy paint city – hugh cook

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This candy paint city, sparkling in razor wire,
Cannot hold the eyes of any- because they see twice.
They see my nails, five dots that are not empty.

My fingers look like their house,
Loving eyes meet mine,
Flit down, and stay
With those chipping lavender and dirt walls,
Which so resemble their city,
Which scare these ancient people,
Who live, warm and forgiving.

People who do not know how to love me,
Because of those chipping dots,
And that scares them most
As they hustle through streets crumbling.

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art: @jseigar

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down the cellar stairs – william doreski

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Corkscrewing down the cellar stairs,
I dare the worn planks to creak
or otherwise betray me. Pie-slice
wedge-steps work a right angle.
The handrail’s a linear sketch,
a crippled M-shape warped
along the concrete foundation,
then bent across a partition
painted gray half a century past.

Framed in dark, the lit stairway
flowers like something sinister,
something overripe and seeding
in the ruined old greenhouse in France
I visited decades ago.
Monet would have liked that greenhouse
with its slats and lattices of sun
trilling through the broken glass.

No natural light to ease this cellar,
no lambent blossoms run wild—
only muscled shadows thick enough
to trouble me as I descend
to face a house-wide expanse
of dusty floor and clumsy objects
of competing dimensions conspiring
in shades too subtle to parse.

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William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in various journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His new poetry collection is A Black River, A Dark Fall.

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i got drunk and pissed on the side of buffalo exchange – ghost #62

~ South Broadway Press ~ 2 Comments

Hi. I am not dead as of yet

I don’t think.

I feel as if I still have bus passes to validate.

Cold streets to walk down in Denver
they say that walking around Wash Park is as hazardous to your health
as a pack of cigarettes
I haven’t researched it really
but it’s believable
as in it’s probably true
as in the park is trying to kill me
as in I really gotta take a minute to vote
and I should really take some time to doll myself up a bit.

Do you think that
when you die
there’s a stat sheet?

How many hours of my life did I spend on social media?
Masturbating?
Who was the king or queen actor of your porn history?
Let’s take a look at your Google searches.
Could you please pay your Englewood Library late fees before you go?

I got drunk once and pissed on the side of Buffalo Exchange.
To be honest it was exhilarating.
It felt like a statement but I’m not sure it was as simple as me defaming
Buffalo Exchange or claiming it as my own
though the double-edged sword there is certainly very interesting.

Halloween feels like getting drunk on Satan to get through Christmas.

Thanksgiving feels like impatience to get to Christmas so we eat.

All of these holidays feel like clever ways to fight seasonal depression.

All of the seasonal depression maybe is a necessary decompression.

A body in motion stays in motion
so when in constant motion
there is a necessity for a body
to somehow adapt and find ways
to recharge.

I’m falling in love with someone every week.

I’m letting go of someone every week.

I want hot cocoa but not the calories.

I think I just want someone to read my poems once I am dead.

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ghost selfie – alexandra naughton

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Alexandra Naughton is based in Richmond, California. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Be About It Press, established in 2010. She is the author of six poetry collections including You Could Never Objectify Me More Than I’ve Already Objectified Myself (Punk Hostage Press, 2015), I Will Always Be In Love (Paper Press, 2015), and I Wish You Never Emailed Me (Ghost City Press, 2016). Her first novel, American Mary, was published by Civil Coping Mechanisms in 2016. Her latest collection of short stories, Rapid Transit, was published in March 2018 by Nomadic Press.

ravenous – veronica love

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Lips suck me in closer, as hungry hands met with hungry thoughts grab for a morsel when they crave a feast. Tempered by reality of the looming dawn and day and life and all that comes with being bogged down with that which cloys desire. A moment more.. Or two… Push back the need for separation, hold off on leaving the cornucopia for bread and water. Sirens sing of desire, though we see the rocks below, they still call, and gingerly we veer closer, pulled away last minute by reason when there is a longing to ride with reckless abandon the waves, and say damn we may…we may want to sleep beneath them, it may be worth the crash.. but last minute we steer away… And embrace the cliche of living to eat another day. One more kiss… Remind me of that I already miss..

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ghosts//gardens//graveyards – k.j. kindling

~ South Broadway Press ~ 2 Comments

You burned it all to the ground.
In a flaming baptism of self-righteous
forgiveness
you let the past go.
Like you could burn off the cowardice
if you sat in the heat long enough.
Like you could sear yourself
into being someone better
if I was gone.
If I never happen.
If our memories
were just a smoke show.

You probably thought the ash would
fertilize the next garden.
Our garden became a graveyard
and years collapsed like kindling.
But there’s an ashy taste
left in your mouth
no spring flood can wash away.
No one else can feel
the soot in your teeth.
But you do.

How nice to think
you could incinerate a ghost.
We both know
you
were
the
death
of who I was.
It’s not something
you can smolder.

You promise your next girlfriend one day
you’ll get all the tattoos that have to
do with me
removed
and you don’t tell her each time you
smell a flower
you inhale puffs of smoke.

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KJ Kindling is a naturalist, a feminist, a rescue dog enthusiast, a seventh generation Coloradoan, and a naturalist. She’s currently working on three novels, two of which are verse novels, and one book of poems. You can find more of her work at www.kjkindling.com or on her Instagram or Pinterest (@kj.kindling).