I have stolen the dandelions scattered their seeds across
fields of tulips and tamarind I have felt desire crack
my lips apart under the weight of its slippery skin
What fresh figs, what sunny flowers What breaking hearts
rot beneath the hills beneath sticky sidewalk pavements
We grow older but not duller hovering translucent over
calendar time
Sara Whittemore is a poet living in Houston, Texas. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa. Her work has recently appeared in Interim Magazine, Juniper Press and Tiny Spoon, and others. In addition to being a poet she is an artist, alien and cat person. You can find her on instagram @sarafromsaturn.
brutalized attacked and slandered beaten throughout centuries wandering through a mist of sorrow through world wars through a cemetery the size of the Sea of Reeds
then blessed by God and nations and given back their homeland holy land returned to Zion oh Israel oh holy land oh El Elohe Yisrael oh The Mighty One God of Israel
how terrifying you’ve become how brutal your power how punishing your vengeance how bloody your hands
you’ve let loose the leash of the angels of the apocalypse upon your neighbors and upon their land God’s hell has risen
now the broken people now the occupied the scattered descendants of the conquered bombed to dust their hospitals their places of worship their schools their people their children their lineage their line of hope obliterated in the constant barrage of revenge
only the law of God matters El Elohe Yisrael only the law of Israel above the laws of men of war of nations above the internationals from above comes the law from above the blessing of violations of wanton cruelty from above the blessings of starvation the blessings of suffering the blessings of obliteration of the grave of the dark
terror begets terror begets terror begets the horror show begets infinite suffering a sea of tears a grand canyon of corpses
for your neighbors not mercy but broken bones not compassion but severed bodies for your neighbors there is no salt no bread no wine but disease starvation and poisoned water
oh Palestine the world watches and not much is done and what is done seems as spit into the wind as spit on to the face of Palestine
Palestine no mother’s day Palestine no fourth of July Palestine no apple pie no answers from Salat no call from God no response from the deepening chorus of mourning echoing out toward Mecca and bouncing off the Kaaba
Ted Vaca is a Denver area based poet and performer. He began writing steadily in the late 1980’s in his home state of California. He has been published in numerous publications and has self-published two chapbooks. He is a member of the 1995 Asheville National Slam Poetry Championship team. He is a founding member of The Mercury Cafe Poetry Slam, (Denver, CO.) established in 2000, and ongoing since then. He is the coach of the 2006 Mercury Cafe Slam Championship team. He has hosted countless poetry readings and slams and special events throughout his 35-plus years in catering toward poetic pursuits.
Ted is an award winner of Colorado’s Lulu award for accomplishments in poetry and The James Ryan Morris Tombstone award.
Ted has worked for Art from Ashes, a Colorado based not for profit that encourages and teaches healing through art therapy, catering to youth in illness and at risk.
Goddess Wept a Daydream into echoes of silence and storm
Sarah danced through green grass across a field, a river and rocky plains gathered water from the well-springs, bathed in starlight infused pools
Morsels of sweet grew on reeds and beds made from its stalks Beside the fresh baskets… Fire spoke with moonlight and sleep behind her eyes
Dreams of quiet leopards in the night Raindrops petal upon thatch-top and stone As light painted gently upon her eyes
Fresh air and dew pooling water in baskets whispers of times yet passed the catch of small fish she washed with root and healed with twig in devotion to spirit and great grass sky
holding hands with the wind
Lee Frankel-Goldwater is a teacher and a poet seeking the sage’s path. He knows it’s about the journey, and yet dreams of the destination. One of peace, one of less fear, or worry, or shame for all. He believes there’s some good in this world worth fighting for, and prays that his every deed is made into this backdrop. Lee writes at the Writer’s Block, dances at Mi Chantli, and plays around Boulder, CO. He’s always ready for a story.
“Mr. Guinan, I’ll bet your little girl Texas was born in the saddle and cut her teeth on a six-gun!” — — Buffalo Bill Cody
Since Texas Guinan had an appetite
For wild, her feet detached from Waco's mud,
Wound up in Omaha. Auditions had
Begun for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.
Pale horse, pale rider — — hastening sunset.
If I keep robbing her of rightful rest,
Perhaps her death will never saddle up.
The time warp points to 1899.
Dawn broke as if it's roping scattered light.
A rifle shot by Annie Oakley grabbed
Attention — — but to Texas it translates
Brash promises of never hearing no.
When films were silent, heroism was shown
By how much good and evil fought onscreen.
Frail victims needed cowboys saving them.
But Tex rode roughshod over this belief,
Which scored new contracts in 1918.
For her they penned “Gun Woman.” She portrayed
The cowgirl sent to handle rescuing.
Before she mounts Bucephalus bare-backed,
She'll buckle up her gunbelt, knowing girls
Will take the reins by watching how it's done,
Strong knife arms swinging out to sever old
Restrictions Hollywood's boys' club imposed.
On camera, she'll hand roll smokes between
Two fingers, like scout's honor, execute
Her own stunts, thank you, and win back the ranch.
Refusing to play victims on the screen,
Be foiled by bullets, brave like Annie — — but
On horseback — —Texas Guinan blazed a trail
Through celluloid, always maintained a voice
In how she was portrayed, unique this way,
A heroine in every interview.
As organ music swelled, the silver screen
Replayed her derring-do, subtitles on.
If I deny The Reaper came to wrest
Control at 49, will she wake up?
The time warp points to 1933.
Westerns are not the way you left them, Tex,
When you starred in “My Lady Robin Hood.”
Once talkies had caught on, cowgirls were gone.
Producers wanted men as brave, rightful
Defenders of vast untamed prairie towns.
The hour of her untimely death reared up,
Then flung her, dazed, distressed, lifetime compressed.
Pale horse, pale rider — — uninvited guest.
Her spirit hovers over Hollywood,
Where she's their only female shooting star.
Greenwich Villager LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, Best of the Net, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award winner “A Route Obscure and Lonely,” “Concupiscent Consumption,” “Women Who Were Warned,” FirecrackerAward, Balcones Poetry Prize, Quill and Ink, Paterson Poetry Prize,and IPPY Award nominee “Messengers of the Macabre” [co-written with David Davies], “Apprenticed to the Night” [Beacon Books, 2023] , and “Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide” [Ukiyoto Publishing, 2023] are her latest poetry titles.Twitter.Youtube. Website.
There are quite a few miles that crevice you from home,
Like the zip of your suitcase that flies between hope and not-hope.
I can only imagine how the fridge door must be slamming, unlike the one back here—
Extended supplies shunting faster than Turner’s baby,
The one that cries but never comes.
Do you wake each day to a finite line
And trace back the rhino’s trail
You had smiled about the other day?
Does Bishop speak clearer now
And blur your vocabulary?
I am afraid I will forget your smiling hair
And the exact shade of your red lipstick
(The traces are already starting to drift).
Lie to me when I ask about happiness
Or perhaps halt the track of my question
(‘Are you home yet?’)
With a whistle or a red flag,
For then I can at least begin to unmemorise
Your face greeting me in some departure lounge.
Jayati Das is a research scholar from Tezpur University, India, and holds a Master’s degrees in English Literature frotm the University of Delhi. Her areas of research include representations of the Vietnam War, masculinity studies, and queer cinema. She has won over a dozen prizes in creative writing at the college and university levels. Several of her poems and stories have been published in The Assam Tribune, The Sentinel, and e-magazines like The Golden Line, including a story in an anthology titled DU Love. Her published research includes essays on the Mizo poet, Mona Zote, race in Othello, and on Pedro Almodóvar’s cinema.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home.Purchase here.
The British built it, upon our home, In Idukki, amidst the feral mountains Of Western Ghats*, This structure—a leviathan of construction, Which they said was The symbol of modernity, An accomplishment of human effort, This sterile, dark, tearing off the heart, Of the Western Ghats, The dam with which they also ruled, Nature with alacrity. For two hundred years, the empire governed Our desires and hopes, destinies and dreams. Our home enchained, Under the hoof of the emperor’s horse, Dying, rising, dying again, rising again, Like an old creature heaving for its last breath. But the old and spent Doesn’t impress the empire, And it left this land, its nature, And the people, with a tale Of condescending kindness, Letting the “young” nation self-govern, With warnings of possible schisms. But with general consolations At the possible victories gained: Like the railways, the dams, the roads, And the democratic spirit. The siren of the train is bearable, And so is the sluggishness Of the democratic system, And bureaucracy, but the dam— A silent monstrosity of Idukki, Governing the Ghats with its grey bosom, Serving mostly electric power-supplies. It’s old, with dark lines of age growing On the ramparts of the reservoirs, Mossy, slippery wall, waiting— For its final fall, every Monsoon, Drowning our dwelling places Underneath the dammed up spirit Of the wild and tortured river, Surpassing human alacrity. So when the rains ravage, We hear the echoes, of death— Riding the horse of the old emperor, Upon the ramparts of the old walls, With the fear of death, Still governing us.
[1] Idukki is one of the southern restrictions in Kerala state, India, which is situated in the Western Ghats.
[2] Western Ghats is a chain of mountains bordering Kerala’s western side, which is known as ecologically fragile.
Prune the leaves- pluck the crisp ones that no longer serve her, watch them hit the floor with a bone crunch. Gently untangle her vines from their previous cage. Dislocate her from one pot, descending to the next.
We place her into the soil. Pearlite and peat moss, spilling past the edges of her new shelter, dusting your Pine-Sol purified floor.
Pat her down, our hands meet under the dirt, a brush of unearned domesticity. Specks of soil, line the ridges of your fingertips, granting anonymity to your palms.
Sitting knee to knee, surrounding her dwelling. I gaze into your eyes and wonder, will this be her final resting place? Or will we uproot, disrupt her growth, push her past the point of no return?
Lillian Fuglei is a Colorado based poet. She began writing poetry in High School, after a lifetime of attending open mics thanks to her mother. She currently bounces between two of the highest paying jobs possible, substitute teaching and freelance journalism. You can find her on Instagram at literary.lillian.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home.Purchase here.
I am dreaming of An Alabama night- Crickets chirping; echoing Of sentiment, breaking The song of the loon Diving, strutting Through phrases, phases Of a honeysuckle Milk glass moon Whose distant sway Ripples, pools, pulls Pebbled ponds, precious pearls Where locals gather To swim, fish, skip stones Across reflections of sky and stars.
I am. falling, failing- Form fleeing a cold city An asp escaping This fruitless orchard A moth chained by the Candlelight of a distant beacon.
I close my eyes See the pines, skies White wings, fluttering Glittering patchwork Transforming. I am again A small-town boy Taking the back road, Wooded path winding To the Jackson-Slaughter bridge; Racing in the pecan grove, Chasing shadows, fireflies; Laughing, dreaming, laying Staring, believing- feeling The force; the iron vein Of a vanishing home- Remembering more from Windows that never close A place I no longer belong.
M. Palowski Moore is a poet, writer and storyteller. He has five volumes of poetry, including the Lambda Award nominee BURNING BLUE. His compositions reflect diverse themes and interpretations of prejudice, racism, socioeconomic inequality, homophobia and systemic oppression. He is a contributing poet to the Civil Rights Memorial Center (SPLC) community poem A CIVIL COMMUNITY, a new exhibit that will be featured inside the final gallery of The Civil Rights Memorial Center.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home.Purchase here.
Every body has a right to shelter in a home. To be safe from cold, the heat, the storm.
///
We want a house built by the people / we want walls of justice / we want liberation / we want windows and doors of possibility / look outside / in a world where everyone has a home / anything is possible / how do we transform /
///
“Home is where the heart is.” The heart is the size of your fist. Some things are worth fighting for.
///
Homelessness is not a choice.
Criminalizing survival is unconstitutional.[1]
///
The body— my body is made of rooms of memory— The body— my body is made of hallways— The body— my body does not remember— The body— my body remembers everything
///
Here is my skin. Imagine all of the things I have touched. Here are my bones.
///
I do not remember leaving the dwelling of my mother’s body. I do not remember being born.
///
What does it mean to care for another?
[1] Denverhomelessoutloud.org
Liza Sparks (she/her) is an intersectional feminist, writer, poet, and creative. She is a brown-multiracial-queer-woman living and working in Colorado. Her work has appeared with Ghost City Review, Bozalta Collective, Cosmonauts Avenue, and many others; and is forthcoming with Honey Literary, Split This Rock’s social justice database—The Quarry, and will be included in Nonwhite and Woman Anthology published by Woodhall Press in 2022. Liza was a semifinalist for Button Poetry’s Chapbook contest in 2018 and was a finalist for Denver Lighthouse Writers Workshop Emerging Writer Fellowship in Poetry in 2020 and 2019. She is a poetry reader for The Chestnut Review. You can read more of Liza’s work at lizasparks.com, IG @sparksliza534, or TW @lizathepoet.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home.Purchase here.
You open the apartment door and it is just wood. Wood behind the door. You need to enter your apartment. To sleep. To work. To clean. You burrow into the wood with a small drill bore. You carve a desk inside the wood. You leave legs of the wood in each corner of the room so the wood roof doesn’t collapse on you, crushed by mahogany in the night. You wake one day and it is raining paper. A hole has split in the wood from all the paper where it was leaking from the bathtub upstairs. The paper is covered in all your upstairs neighbor’s poetry. Your upstairs neighbor is always so loud, crying for whole weeks at a time. Your neighbor is so loud the sound bleeds through the mahogany. The mahogany is now spilling into your bed, your bed you carved yourself out of the desk, the desk which appeared behind the door, the apartment which was drowned in poetry. The future that is always words.
Wheeler Light is an MFA candidate at the University of Virginia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Pretty Owl Poetry, The Penn Review, and Broadsided Press, among others. His work can be found at www.wheelerlight.net
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home.Purchase here.
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