Tag: poetry

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

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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).

the insomnia – d.s. maolalai

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the snore
came suddenly
like dynamite
popping in a cave.
he woke to the sound,
shocked out of sleep,
and lay there
listening to his heartbeat
and wondering
if the roof had fallen
and were the children
alright in their beds.
the next one
came
from the pillow next to him
and minutes later.
it seemed
each night
that behind her face
was a lamp-post,
hit
with occasional
cars.

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DS Maolalai is a poet from Ireland who has been writing and publishing poetry for almost 10 years. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize.

 

glen canyon dam – ghost #909

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We’d traveled hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of miles into the deepest recesses of the desert land to see the Bottomless Pit of Babies for ourselves. We all peered down into the abyss, my father holding me up over the edge for a better look.

“See, look over at those ones. They’re trying to climb out. Isn’t that the cutest?”

We all peered down into the seething, teeming bowl of fresh babies–mewling, crawling, naked, red, and raw, faces scrunched and fists balled, crying out for the mothers from which they’d be ripped away, screaming at the fathers that let them go.

Yeah, it was a bottomless pit of babies. That was for sure. And we all saw it. Paid for the pleasure, even.

Oh, and they even set one up for display up there. So we could all see what they looked like, up close.

But it was just a baby.

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spells – ghost of the scarab

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she took me to spells and what i mean is
she took me to the edge of her bed
and draped legs on each side of me
lips on each side of me
eyes preying/praying outside of me
tongue pushed inside of me
and she pressed down on top of me
hips swinging billy idol fast beat swing
and immediately i wanted to write a letter
to whatever cosmic collision birthed her
and thank said cosmic collison
for what was truly her work in her
unadulterated presentation of honest soft lips
as dizzy she took me to spells and back to rock
and roll and some more and finding myself pulling
subtly at her clothes with my fingers
and my teeth she demanded me to be honest
with the intentions of my fingers and my teeth and pulled me in
fingers crawling back to you to reach for what lies beneath
and damn damn bangarang clothes strewn true on the floor
each deep breath flooding the floor and each deep sweat
a reminder that sometimes brunch tastes like silk rope
and sweet death and god damn she had me singing baby
straight from my chest and baby, you had me tied down
by your teeth as we started to reach and we started to
reach and we started to end and can you really sleep beside a dream?
wherein you find that there can be so much light in the dark?
and wherein you find that when you’ve been fighting and fighting
and fighting for a sense of reality
that maybe what you’re truly craving
is a taste of magic

she took me to spells
and i died so many times
in the confines
of her room

so soon after she gave me
a sweet tour of the space
she was claiming
as her own.

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so what’s left – john grey

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after the parades die down
and three hundred million of us
are left with nothing to do
but pick up trash from the sidewalk:
take down the signs

as troops are dispersed
to go home
and look at themselves
in the mirror

and the presidents and senators
and colonels and capitalist
are secure in their counting houses

and it starts to rain
on flagstone on brown boot
on hair and bald head
on whatever flesh dare expose itself
even on a faded tattoo of a heart

and on rusted auto of course
dead junco live pigeon
even all over two people
who cross themselves
in a flamboyant Godspeak
then quote the desiccated Gospel of love

and rats tinkle bells
like old Rita’s cow
and ancient tongues speak
a diffused paranoia
and the young stir their names
in the muddy ground
with the last of the slicks
made of broken limbs
from trees once everywhere
now shipped in from elsewhere

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.  

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water me down – ghost #11

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When they tell you through
The television that
You are still not quite enough
I stew my own tender meats inside me

I watch as you preserve yours
To be devoured in private
Your eyes are kitchen windows
I am looking up at you
from inside the pot

When you ask
What’s getting to me
I become a soup kitchen
Ask you to taste it in front of me
Does it need more salt?

The anger makes a fine marinade
It often spoils the whole batch
Emotion will do that
Dilute the point
Onlookers eat me up
Leave me with only broth.

figure 8 – fm ghost

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We could skate around
the issue like a figure 8
each falling down forever
the holes of a sideways shape

Where would we be
in this infinity dream?
backward into eternity
or forward toward unknown

We could cut our palms, make a pact
to help each other usher change
mix & match our blood
but the colors stay the same

We could do nothing
simply take a breath
swallow all the stones
we’ve placed within our throats

Truth is we tend to complicate things
in most cases make the bleeding worse
from a fight that isn’t there
to wanting the last word to get in first

What would we do if we
were what we claimed to be?
tumble into eternity
or headlong toward unknown

Falling forever

Into infinity

Sideways always shaping

Who we claimed to be