Tag: poetry

Lately Done, Lately Love // Josh Gaydos

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Image: Andrew Seaman

Lately Done, Lately Love

BY JOSH GAYDOS

lately done, lately love
‘neath garlands
neatly trimmed
nearly featureless, without
tethers or hands fastening
to a pledge of allegiance
they cannot keep,
to a creator who spun the trees like
screws before the sign off scene,
like polished high heel shoes

lately done, lately love
with timid approach to cuckoo
clocks dipping beaks in sanded
hours, our end left with a note
that will oil from skin with us,
vinyl and wood, needle and mud
could forget the impression made
without the guesswork
of carbon dating

lately done, lately love
no fruit will fall
from the mail ordered
apartment gardens,
boxed up dirt and seed
seen indirectly like one
another, decomposition
composed alone to
conjoin and disintegrate,
barren, bearing

Josh Gaydos (he/him/his) is a self-taught poet that currently resides in Colorado. He has been published in Barren Magazine, Door Is A Jar Magazine, The Lettered Olive and The City Quill. IG: @jgwrites22

The Last Night Before I Bleed | Marissa Forbes

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Image: Mks Mkss

The Last Night Before I Bleed

Disappearing wings made from the milky
way while rose buds bloom under my shirt.

Sleepy sweet tears streak into
snot freezing in my wind-blown
hair.

& I’ll forget
the drawer full of clean underwear.

Cradled between dolls & boys will be
boys skinned knees—all the same.

A body still void of stories.
In the morning, blood on the
sheets like a war without warning.

Sunbeams cascade through
clouds. With my belly on a boat
& head in the bathroom—

whispering in the mirror:
Don’t be scared of motherhood
or the absence of fathers.

Marissa Forbes (she/her) is a writer of all genres. She is an art and writing teacher for creative nonprofits in Colorado, a poetry Instructor for Community Literature Initiative, and the Managing Editor of Twenty Bellows. She was awarded an Author Fellowship from MVICW in 2021 and since 2020 has published numerous short stories and poems in literary journals internationally, which are found on www.marissforbes.com. Her full length collection, Bridging the Gap: Poems & Ethos for Emily Warren Roebling is slated for publication in October 2023 from Finishing Line Press. Forbes lives a colorful life in Denver, Colorado with her two children, dog, and cat. Follow her on Instagram: @word_nerd_ris.

Untitled | Miriam Sagan

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Image: Fr. Daniel Ciucci

Untitled

it’s no longer the Elysian Fields, this
barrio, but the shrine of the sinner is
still decorated in the pocket park
across from the elementary school
and the bakery

El Tiradito may be crumbling
but notes from the heartbroken still
decorate the grave of the unknown
some say a man
killed in a knife fight
over a woman
buried on unconsecrated ground
as doves wheel from the
cathedral

wishes on slips of paper
pushed between adobe bricks
a panhandler asked for
money but I refused
walking away from the great altar
of the Virgin of Guadalupe

I’m neither wholly good nor
bad I don’t even try anymore
to be myself
because I don’t know
who that is
although I did buy a slice
of jelly roll and two
doughnuts at Estrella’s

and all that is left
at the bottom of the paper
bag is crumbs
but whether for birds
or wind—
you tell me—
I can’t decide

Miriam Sagan is the author of over thirty books of poetry, fiction, and memoir. Her most recent include Bluebeard’s Castle (Red Mountain, 2019) and A Hundred Cups of Coffee (Tres Chicas, 2019). She is a two-time winner of the New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards as well as a recipient of the City of Santa Fe Mayor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts and a New Mexico Literary Arts Gratitude Award. She has been a writer in residence in four national parks, Yaddo, MacDowell, Gullkistan in Iceland, Kura Studio in Japan, and a dozen more remote and interesting places. She works with text and sculptural installation as part of the creative team Maternal Mitochondria in venues ranging from RV Parks to galleries. She founded and directed the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College until her retirement.

Leather Gloves | Paul Ilechko

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Image: Jack B

Leather Gloves

It’s a curious flavor of darkness 
in the woods     the kind you might expect 
to find in the smoky heart of a dying fire 

a car is moving slowly under the arcing
branches of old oaks and hickories     as if
the driver is watching for something

he is quiet     his body seemingly awkward
in its posture    an unusual stiffness
is rippling from his shoulders  

he drank a cup of Lapsang Souchong
before leaving home     and the smoke
from his breath still baffles his eyes

there used to be CDs on the passenger 
seat     even though he never listens to music
he always fills the gas tank once it’s half empty

in his memory     there were passages beneath
his childhood home     where his mother 
used to rendezvous with a man in leather gloves

they always reappeared after an hour or two
always dressed for rain     always running down 
the springs on an imaginary clock

he imagines the man as his passenger     buckled 
tightly in     as they approach a tunnel     on both
sides     the steep walls of his mother’s thighs

he remembers his father sleeping quietly  
on a bare mattress on the kitchen floor 
in the days before their house burned down.

Paul Ilechko is a Pushcart nominated poet who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Tampa Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, “Meeting Points”, was released in 2021.  

Two Poems | Robert Beveridge

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Image: Noelle Vandenbroucke

The Inhabitants Are Like a Collection of Water*

When I heard that sound that can only
be interpreted one way, we shot up off
the couch, arranged our clothes,
and answered the door. There, just
as expected, the platoon of black
cherry gallons headed up by Harold
the Conqueror, Lord of the Realm
of Berea, West Virginia. We did know
we had to plan for the Battle
of Otterslide Creek, but we also
knew we had at least nine more days
before the sloth army arrived.
Harold pressed the issue; he was
concerned his troops would melt.
We bivouacked them in the chest
freezer, fed Harold frozen enchiladas,
and got back down to business.

* the title of this poem is a line from the trailer of the movie Church Money.

Outbound

They burst in and say
this is a stickup but
they’re all holding
turkey sausage. You
turn back to the teller,
continue your deposit
of half a sheep
and a peck of bananas.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Stickman Review, Nebo, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.

Mein Traum / My Dream | Cristina A. Bejan

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Image: Kitae Kim

My Dream
English Translation

She stands there, clearly, near me
A girl, not so small
Ten years or more
I think
Also blonde
With brown eyes
Same as me
And she speaks to me in German
No English?
I say
No.
Why young lady
We are not in Germany
Nobody here knows German
I have to know German
She tells me
I have to write in German
What did you write then?
My dreams
And nobody can see
Just me
And now you
I am just a foreigner in your life
No.
You are my dream
In the United States, I dreamed of you in German
And I wrote everything down
At that moment, I realized
That girl and me – we
Are the same woman
And I remember very well why I couldn’t write in English
In my American West
My American mother would read everything
And my Romanian father was telling me
Green horses on the walls
And suddenly I see clearly
That the dreams I wrote down at age 10
Have all come true
I cannot believe that
But am I simply happy
And also a little alone with myself
And together with this world

Mein Traum
Original German

Sie steht da, klar, in meiner Nähe
Ein Mädchen, nicht so klein
Seit zehn Jahre oder so
Ich glaube
Auch blond
Mit braunen Augen
Das gleich wie ich
Und sie spreche zu mir auf Deutsch
Kein English?
Sag ich
Nein.
Wie so Liebling?
Wir sind nicht in Deutschland
Niemand hier kennt Deutsch
Ich muss Deutsch kennen
Sie mir sagt
Ich muss auf Deutsch schreiben
Was hast du dann geschrieben?
Meine Träume
Und niemand kann sehen
Nur ich
Und jetzt du
Was ist dann passiert?
Ich bin nur Ausländer in dein Leben
Nein.
Du bist mein Traum
In der Vereinigte Staaten hab ich an dich auf Deutsch getraumt
Und ich hab alles geschrieben
In diesen Moment, mir war klar
Das dieses Mädchen und ich
Sind die gleiche Frau
Und ich erinnere mich sehr warum ich konnte auf English nicht schreiben
In meinem Amerikanische West
Meine Amerikanische Mutter wurde alles lesen
Und meine Rumänisch Vater wurde mir sagen
Grüne Pferde an den Wänden
Und plötzlich sehe ich klar
Das meine Träume geschriebt auf nur zehn Jahren
Sind ganz passiert
Ich kann das nicht glauben
Aber bin ich einfach glücklich
Und auch ein bisschen allein mit meinen Selbst
Und zusammen mit dieser Welt

Cristina A. Bejan is an award-winning Romanian-American historian, theatre artist, and poet. A Rhodes and Fulbright scholar, she is a professor at Metropolitan State University of Denver. Bejan received her DPhil (PhD) in Modern History from the University of Oxford. A playwright and spoken word poet (her stage name is Lady Godiva), her creative work has appeared in the US, UK, Romania, and Vanuatu. In addition to many scholarly articles, she has published a poetry book (Green Horses on the Walls), history book (Intellectuals and Fascism in Interwar Romania), and a play in Voices on the Move (eds. Radulescu and Cazan).

Two Poems | Leor Feldman

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Image: Jelena Ardila Vetrovec

FLESHY KIDS

pink bubbles circulate her
purple knees

–gather in my pubic hair.
Pockets burst within dark scruff

criss-crossed, my legs besiege the tub
severing our ocean in two parts

my form conquering space–
an iceberg against a buoy.

Fur sprouts with the height of puberty.

She gathers white fluff in her palms, lathering soap in dirty-blonde locks
massaging higher and higher until she forms a tin hat–

fairytales we spew as a connection to our God.

Mom thinks I’m too old to bathe with friends now–
whispered against my bed sheets before “Goodnight” rests beside me.

I refuse to be without Clementine’s soapy mane. The rest of her is still
smooth and slight–

cementing our divide.

Nightmares of spiky legs, tangled leaves–
branches spit out across my jagged edges equating adulthood or–

even an end to our songs,
our fragile world
–built on an island of hot water quickly dying without steam.

Always Alone in Grocery Stores

always-alone-in-grocery-stores

Leor Feldman (they/them/she/her) is a writer based in Denver, Colorado. They often write of their body as a roadmap to illustrate how they’ve grown through chronic illness, while also exploring their relationship with their Jewish culture and queer identity. With a BA in Writing & Literature from California College of the Arts, Leor is currently working towards a Masters in International & Intercultural Communication at the University of Denver. They have poetry published in Humble Pie Literary Journal, as well as articles in Hey Alma and The Colorado Sun. Find them on Instagram.

her to my own | Devin Welch

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Image: Doruk Yemenici

her
to my
own.

BY DEVIN WELCH

saw a girl. she looked like you with someone who looked like me,
but taller with more weight. there were moments in the chais, rather
than this alarmed street with gum under my shoe and a ringing ear
and folks who don’t want me. the pubs with warm beer, I miss bars.
you’re a mother now. and the younger we age, two years equity and
sixty thousand exchanges they still looked like us. her less beautiful.

in the revolving barber’s chair i’m asked about my hair, but I can’t see in the passing
mirrors of the market where the drawn doors and portraits of those who’ve never been
here sleep behind the streetlamps. back to the cheap tabs and bad company where i can’t
tell love from brixton’s best. i thank god i’m not wet ‘cause i’ve floated that lido and i’m
sick of english words. i miss temperament, but can’t return to buoy in grandlake and not
course downstream. which i guess wouldn’t be so bad, not if I could stay on my back.

Originally from the front range, Devin Welch currently lives and works in London, UK where he recently finished his MFA at the University of London, Birkbeck. His prose, reviews, poetry, and films have been featured in publications across North America and Europe. 

The House We Build Together | Christopher Clauss

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Image: Katherine Cavanaugh

Christopher Clauss

I do not ask her
if she believes
that the fairies will really come,
that they might be searching for a tiny backyard house
in which to dwell.
Even if they were,
no magical creature would choose
to live in this tangle of sticks
over which we have fussed
for far too long.
It doesn’t matter
that the bed of moss
will go un-slept in.
I will not worry myself
with exactness or proportions
of bark chair to mushroom table.
The fairies will never complain
about such things.
We busy ourselves
with flower petal carpets
and arranging decorations
of shiny quartz pebble just so.
The final product
is never quite what she envisioned.
The furnishings are rustic
and the roof keeps falling in
each time it is adjusted
by little fingers with the best of intentions.
She will remember
building everything herself.
When it is gone,
when the rain
and breeze
and rot have scattered the remnants
she will remember it
as a jeweled palace,
a luxurious home.
She will sleep comfortably
in her own bed
knowing the fairies
are well cared for,
imagining she had tucked them in herself,
kissed them gently on the forehead
the way Daddy does
before he whispers
good night.

Christopher Clauss (he/him) is an introvert, Ravenclaw, father, poet, photographer, and middle school science teacher in rural New Hampshire.  His mother believes his poetry is “just wonderful.” Both of his daughters declare that he is the “best daddy they have,” and his pre-teen science students rave that he is “Fine, I guess.  Whatever.”

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

The Stars | Zack Kopp

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Image: Zoltan Tasi

The Stars

The cold stars clicking their claws together like crabs in a tank. History changes and runs off the page like butter. The world has been dragged through me, and I’ve been dragged through the world. We’re even. Stars twirl over stinking trenches, beginning a subtle magnetic resurrection that will take all time and never end. The mind is a machine to move matter. The scenes are super modern. The earth has us, and we multiply. Founded in an impulse of wild lonely need, not serious planning. The stars dissolve in my mouth not my hand. Let this life not be a torment. Let the stars stop shaking. Please, God. I will turn my greatest tricks for you.

Zack Kopp is a freelance writer, editor, photographer, graphic artist, and literary agent currently living in Denver, Colorado. His informal history of the Beat Generation’s connections with Denver was published by The History Press in 2015. Kopp’s books are available at Amazon, and you can find his blog at the website for his indie hybrid press at www.campelasticity.com featuring interviews and articles and links to other websites. His improvised novel, Public Hair, was described by one critic as “simultaneously the best and worst book ever.” The latest chapter of Kopp’s “fantastic biography” (Cf. Billy Childish), Henry Crank’s History of Wonders is expected in 2022.