Tag: poetry

Three Poems | Jessica Bagwell

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Image: Annie Spratt
Incantation 
to my Wisdom Teeth

I imagine you being lifted up and out
	easily
		not by the touch
of an object or an instrument
	or a hand
		but by way
of your own command.

I see you floating out
	as if you simply
		wanted to leave–
no force, no ache, no blood.

After, 
	you are not gone from me
		but returned 

to the Earth, to the Air.
	You are less bone
		than soil
less soil than sky.
You are four moons 

in the soft night
	so there is no part of me
		that needs to be healed

only these glowing orbs
	that I have known.
		And now, they have
relinquished me.
Ode to the Barn Swallow 

I love a beautiful bird
that cracks open the daybreak
and re-configures the setting

              of the sun. I take her into me.
              Everything I know of touch 
              has been learned from the gloss
              of her feathers
              and the swallow
              down her orange throat.

                            When I am to finally live,
                            it will be with the arrival
                            of hope. The hope
                            that she will surrender
                            the whole sky 
                            that was once under
                            her wings so that she
 
                            might return to me.

On Prince Edward Island

                a corridor opens
along a path of red pines

long necks 
reaching toward a starless
November, dirt like burnt sugar
litters the path		I ache
to taste it 
but pine needles lace
in and out, at once sharp,
and when the night settles, soft

I am searching for pieces of broken 
              promises, but when I tire
I will turn myself in

Jessica Bagwell is primarily a poet, but also dabbles in creative nonfiction. Her work appears in Needle Poetry, Sorin Oak Review, and New Literati. In her poems, she pays homage to the lyric and explores formal experimentalism. When she is not writing, she enjoys practicing & teaching yoga, taking long walks, and sampling local breweries with her partner. 

Crossing | Lorraine Caputo

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Image Nick Collins

CROSSING

Our ship cuts a
quiet wake across the
Río de la Plata
The harbor of Buenos Aires
slow motions
away from us
The muddy haze of
pollution hangs
within the labyrinths
of canyon streets,
thick o’er the poor
south barrios

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The fringed skyline
further behind
us now
The sun silverplates
the water, dead
fish bobbing
Ships far asea
coming in or
leaving this port
& to our east
the dark risen shore
of Uruguay

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wind strong up
on the deck, slicing
the bright sun
That once-far bank
& isles nearing, heavy
with thick-leafed trees

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose poetry appears in over 400 journals on six continents, and 20 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019), Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022) and the upcoming In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com. 

Two Poems | Kate Beall

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Image: Crystal Jo

Shard
after Joseph Ceravolo

it’s
one thing to pull time
like taffy, America,

if maybe you had
enough sugar to form

a sweet ball, organic
and tender, but it’s another to blank and
piss and smack real

people around just to
see what we can take
until we eat us
sugared flesh from
candied bone this

unspooled ticking wild
heart the last last god

As Hunger for Melon

How close sweetness is to rot. Begging and easy to want. Leave the hard-won water of astringent rind. Hold something darker in the mouth, something so close to loss you feel it on the bone. Give honey, give wine. Fill a plate, a belly, a chalice. Let the sick light of midday collapse the tender center; let the bees get drunk and dream through the neon bulldoze of the afternoon. Spit the seeds, or swallow. Cry when swallows slice the sky. Red life, swollen, falls out.

Kate Beall (she/her) lives and writes in Colorado, nestled between the mountains and the plains. Her work has been published in FERAL: A Journal of Poetry & Art, HAD, and Words & Sports Quarterly. Find her on Twitter at @katebbeall.

Magic Lessons | Theo Itchon

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Image: Michael Marsh

Magic Lessons
(Meditations from an afternoon stroll)

The car that passed thumped
a Fleetwood Mac bassline
and deep inside my cranium
I am still five years old
afraid of spaces that contain
only me; no guardian to hold.
I catch a whiff of vinegar,
and I think of my lover.
His naturally upturned mouth,
and his eyes soft like soil
after the storm has passed.
I look at the wildflowers,
and think of all the graveyards
I would like to contain me.
Heart no longer beating,
just a garden my grandmother
used to tend to, once teeming
with fuchsia and dandelion.
In my dreams that night, I tell auntie Ayreen
about she, who looked like
lavender skies. Her head haloed
with stray blonde strands,
iridescent under the setting sun.
There is magic in this earth.
It lives in pinecones, in the sound
of the TV from the next room,
and in fields overrun with weeds;
in the sea that roars itself a drumroll,
perpetually announcing its undulating waves.
The magic is the quiet victory of knowing
the guarantees of the earth.
The sun will rise and it will set,
grief will endure and so will love.
We’ve come so far
that we can see it all coming.
And yet – miraculously, tenderly,
this special pocket of the universe
surprises us anyway.

Theo Itchon is a poet from the Philippines working as a creative writing teacher to the Filipino youth. Their poems have been published in Thimble Lit Magazine, Eunoia Review, Unbroken Journal, The Cardiff Review, among others. Talk to them on Instagram @theoitchon. 

Human Nature | Leighton Schreyer

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Image: Maxime Valcarce

Human Nature

Do not say that you do not see what I see.
Do not say that you do not feel the walls closing in on you, that
you do not hear the click of the key turning, locking you in a box like a coffin, because

nothing is as simple as it seems.

Beyond the borders of those boxes that
sort skin like laundry into darks and lights, coloured or white,
telling tales about the danger posed by a single soot black sweater, hood pulled high,
or a dress, red as blood, thrown in with crisp white sheets because

it only takes one drop;

at the limits of those labels that
reduce people to chemical structures, to nothing but an arrangement of atoms
on one side of a double bond — cis, as in same, ordinary, natural, normal —
or the other — trans, as in different, unlike in nature, form, or quality,

unintelligible and illusory as such;

in between that fractured love that
physicians tried (in vain) to set straight before issuing diagnoses
of sexual deviation — sociopathic personality disturbances to be treated and tamed,
banished to bathhouses first, then bedrooms, now stashed away in closets and being

dared to come out;

within those colossal cracks that
some try to seal with pity, others with prayer, asking God for a miracle, a cure,
something to ease the suffering and numb the pain they attribute to being broken because
they cannot see the sunlight seeping through the cracks, cannot understand that

there is beauty in breaking;

there, in the spaces beyond and inbetween,
at the edges of perception where people are othered and alienated, separated and segregated,
where borders are built with walls made of bricks, not straw or sticks because
there, a harmonious wind howls at the rising moon and life dances with liminality like

humans with nature.

Leighton Schreyer (he/they): is a queer, trans*, disabled writer and poet based out of Toronto who describes themselves as fundamentally unsatisfied with the status quo. Through their writing, Leighton strives to see the unseen and hear the unheard, to make the invisible visible and tell the untold. They use their writing as a tool for activism and empowerment, challenging readers to reflect on the biases and assumptions that shape worldviews. As a current medical student, Leighton is particularly interested in the intersection of health, arts, and the humanities, and is passionate about using stories, storytelling, writing, and poetry as powerful tools for healing and connection.

Diagnosis | Brian Dickson

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Image: Christin Wurst

Diagnosis

Outside the men’s restroom
at Union Station
trench coats heaped
next to skis.

Inside the pile
I am a carpet beetle
minding the pockets.

Outside the pile
I am the custodian with
a side gig selling the larvae
to the chocolate-covered-
insect food truck,
The Smooth Thorax.

Brian Dickson (he/him/his): When not teaching at the Community College of Denver, Brian avoids driving as much as possible to traipse around the front range region by foot, bike, bus or train with kids in tow. Somehow he also serves as an editor for New Feathers Anthology as well.

Two Poems | Tyler Hurula

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Image: Pawel Czerwinski

What’s Left

Maybe I should stop
writing about glitter—
but sometimes I wonder

if it’s the only proof
still clinging to what’s left
of us. Do you miss

the sparkle of my eye
shadow? Golden branded
butterfly kisses fluttered

onto your gilded cheeks.
I guess I just like shiny things
that stay. Like a shimmery

permanence, or a luster
memento of everything
I’ve loved enough to touch.

Another Period Poem

Fucking someone should be easy,
but I’m on my period
on a first date, and I want

to negotiate a scene—
but not that one from The Shining.
So anyway, a man walks into a bar

and I’m bleeding. He says I’m happy
you decided to meet, and my smile
lacks sparkle because I’m just here

for the ride, and one of us knows
that’s not going to happen.
I order something fruity with a tiny

umbrella. My cherry red lipstick ghosts
into the soft red bar-light glow.
I’m on his lap when I say we’re not

having sex. He puts his hands up—
a surrender, says I’d just like to kiss you,
and we do until I’m kissing

him with my eyes open: bored and waiting
for the punchline. An older man
walks into a bar, and I’m still bleeding.

He says I don’t drink but looks thirsty.
I savor the thought of being a novelty,
but he looks everywhere but me

and his fingers fidget, never reach
for mine. He walks me home
and doesn’t invite himself in.

A woman walks into a coffee shop,
it’s a week and a half later and I’m still
bleeding. I’m cursing the bloated

baggage of the breakup that brought
this all on. She says I’d like to kiss you,
and we do and she leaves. I want to feel

something, will myself to exchange
numbness for lust. I’m empty and aching
to be filled by something like soft

hands. The boy made of sand
let himself be swallowed
by a gentler sea. I wish

instead of blood I could bury
him under the rough
sheets of some unknown

bed. I don’t want to write
another poem about this boy
or my period,

but I guess I’ll opt for the latter
because it’s the one that always comes
back.

Tyler Hurula (she/her) is a poet born and raised in Denver, Colorado. She is queer, polyamorous, and lives with her wife and two cats. Author of Love Me Louder (Querencia Press). Her poems have been published previously in Anti-Heroin Chic, Aurum Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, and more. She values connection, authenticity, and vulnerability, and tries to encompass these values in her writing as well as everyday life.

The Hidden Fist | Joshua Gage

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Image: Rocco Dipoppa

The Hidden Fist

Your right hand squeezes,
hoping to milk blood
from the stones of our body.

In its grip, you resurrect
an age of tailfins and lunar discovery,
but you also manifest
the unholiest of sins,
a generation of blind eyes
and cancerous banks.

Consider how many of us descend
to take communion at your altar rail.

Offer us your compassionate bread
and a chalice of wine
fermented from your tears.

With a single snap of your fingers,
we will beat our wings to help
rebuild your temples.

Cradle us
———— in your left hand.

Joshua Gage (he/him/his) is an ornery curmudgeon from Cleveland. His newest chapbook, blips on a screen, is available on Cuttlefish Books. He is a graduate of the Low Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Naropa University. He has a penchant for Pendleton shirts, Ethiopian coffee, and any poem strong enough to yank the breath out of his lungs. Follow him @pottygok.

In the end, everything dies. | Cailey Johanna Thiessen

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Image: Mario Verduzco

In the end, everything dies.

The mold, the spoil,
the mushrooms rising
from damp wood.
All around us the house caves in;
fading rays of sun
illuminate the decay,
and we breathe deep
the rot. Our bodies grow
twice their size
before we start to disappear,
before the fungi take root
and all that’s left
is life.

Cailey Johanna Thiessen (she/her) grew up between Mexico and the United States. She writes in English and Spanish and sometimes a mix of the two. In addition to writing poems, she works as a translator and is an editor and founder of Last Leaves Magazine. She released her debut chapbook Wilder this year, and her poems have been published in 8 Poems, Willard and Maple, Cecile’s Writers, Hispanecdotes, and more. When she’s not working with poetry, you might find her doing embroidery, walking her Frenchie Earl, or eating really good food with her husband.

Hymn for the Powers That Be | Dustin King

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Image: William Morris

Hymn for the Powers That Be

I have a story to tell, a picture to weave behind your eyes.
Blood steamed from the sands. Dinner charred on all sides.
Slip into the bath. Sip tea. A lot of hot liquid at once.
Night after night we remember what we achieve in dreams.
Forgotten in the silence of the morning, the deafening stirring of coffee.
We mouth breath into each other’s mouths. We purr and hiss into the abyss.
In the west mountains move. A whole tree floats down the river.
In my backyard I prod air with a finger and it ripples.
Lines of ants spiral out and under front doors.
A neighbor sobs. A neighbor chops carrots.
A dog barks. A child scolded. Chop chop. And again.
Light shines off the azaleas’ white petals that brown as they wilt.
What will the weeds cradle, gobble? Today is Sunday. Reset day.
Streak of yellow house finch. Buttercup gold dust between my toes.
Day of apologies, forgiveness. Ask for it and receive it in an inhale.
Exhale. In the east waves wash away footprints where we never walked.
Grubs in the garden swallow dirt in the dark.
Speak to the dead. Who dares speak for them?
Is anxiety just the fear of being afraid? Neighbors point to the sky:
A hawk’s arc. A contrail’s swipe. Clouds morph,
take on their many shapes. Swine, toaster, werewolf, Ferrari.
The breeze whispers into trees’ ears, storm, storm.
Where did the birds go? Those first few drops keep their promise.
Sections of the city brimming. Dancers in the downpour.
Metal screeching out of time with the earth’s humming veins.
Then dusk again. Bats spell it out as mosquitoes disappear midair.
The stars! There are more the more you look.
Pray there is appeasing the powers that never were.

Dustin would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and runs a small organization that provides aid to the undocumented community in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in the Potomac Review, Ligeia, Drunk Monkeys, Sublunary Review, and other spots. His poem “Progress, Mexico” appears in an earlier release of poems from the South Broadway Ghost Society.