Locus | JD DeHart
this is the location
from which ideas
are born
tethered to one or two
theories
tied to a way a knowing
clustered, coagulated
around a question
from which more questions
are ultimately born
poetry read online
Coming to Earth | Zarrineh
Coming to Earth was a privilege for selected few, even up in Heavens, no one knew,
When it is your time to join the flight crew, not even a single clue,
A particle in a pile of clay, I wondered when it would be my day,
Rumi’s word on my tiny mind, “Love is a phenomenon of no other kind”,
I hear the flutter of wings; angels selecting different things,
Afterwards, it is quite blurry; there is a commotion and a flurry,
I am in a sack of water; from outside I hear laughter,
I see this young man caressing a woman’s cheek; his voice trembling and thick,
Somehow, I feel his touch, between us there is connection as such,
They dance to a series of songs, breathing happiness to their lungs,
My world is dark, limited and stark,
I am fed with a tube attached to my belly, unable to bounce freely,
No difference between my day and night, I am missing The Light,
All of sudden, I sense a stir, everything is fast and blur,
She cries of pain, his hand clenched to hers like a chain,,
I am going down; I am going to drown,
There is no hope in this darkness, oh what a mess!
Wait a minute; in unison they say, I love you, welcome to our crew,
I open my eyes; I see lots of light, things I don’t recognize,
But, I smell love; it was worth it, the push and the shove,
The road to love is pretty intricate; believing in love is significant,
I grab his finger really tight, sucking on her breast with all my might.
Put It in a Poem | JD DeHart
I did not have the patience,
so I put it in a poem. My mind
would not allow paragraphs
with extended periods of dialogue,
so I stuffed the story into verse.
I could not express the thought
of fifty years ago, so I pulled along
some metaphors to help the task.
We were lost and tasting bitter
fruit from the crimes of a hundred
years ago, wondering if the soil
was really worth our souls.
We marveled at the casual manner
others had when destroying, by word
or hand, the lives of other people.
Though different, though with diverse
cadence and art, they still looked
like people, like me, like all.
Yet they burned and were never given
the leisure I have bathed in.
When…How…Why…? | Akinbode Israel
The veins of our children,
Lacking blood…dried pipes.
Swimming in dehydrated waters,
Drowning in sweats of shame.
The eyes of our children,
Lids are glued…scary sights seen,
Little eyes have seen rotten bodies,
Why won’t they choose to die young.
The robes of our children,
A carpet for hungry termites,
A hide and seek for rats,
Loosing out their skins to nakedness.
Our children’s palms,
Older than their minute age,
Is nature wicked?
Or our leaders are broken ladders?
When…
How…
Why…
…our children like this?
Country Song | Alec Solomita
A slight ache throbs behind
my eyes,
a little ache
just behind my eyes.
I am studying how I may compare my…
A shaft opens up from my throat to my groin.
Sighs are my food, drink are my tears…
Waking is darker than sleep.
I dreamt of blood while beside me
a madwoman laughed.
And this morning, the TV runs on,
bringing her comfort and me
a feeling so lonesome I could
—–
Alec Solomita has published fiction and poetry in Eclectica, The
Adirondack Review, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and
elsewhere. Most recently, his work has appeared in Turk’s Head
Review, MadHatLit, Truck, 3ElementsReview, and Atomic. Several of his poems will be published in the forthcoming Fulcrum: An International Anthology of Poetry and Aesthetics. He lives in Somerville, Mass.
Seasoned Ambitions | Kwoa
Riches spring glory,
that ambitions to sum her beauty.
But kingdoms fall easily,
and winter chills corpses irrevocably.
More at https://effycreations.com/blog/category/travel-guide-and-photo/world-phoetry/.
By Poem's End | Larry Schug
Inside a wall
under a roof
on a floor
legs folded
body hunched
I read a poem
By poem’s end
I am un-walled
un-roofed
un-floored
un-folded
un-hunched
un-read
un-I’d
More at http://www.larryschugpoet.com.
Trump Hand | Scott Thomas Outlar
How many bombs
dropped
from all of the war
props
poisonous and poised to hiss
with a snake’s tongue
venom on the fang drips
needlepoint precision
Shock and Awe proclamation
A river of fire
in a ring around the city
Mercury enters the blood
a kill shot to the mind
Alzheimer’s and a loss of fight
The hawks and vultures cry
“Mission Accomplished”
as they send the Eagle in
to pick up the bloody pieces
How many lives
lost
from all of the lies
cast
carelessly and callously
with spiteful intentions
malicious persuasion
A thousand points
of propaganda
from the lips of cowards
hiding behind a doomed and decadent Empire
dilapidated and disintegrating
toppling like a house of cards
when a hand of five aces
is laid down on the table
by the collective force
of a Renaissance Revolution
How many souls
will rise
on the day that the truth
takes flight
lofty and laced with visions
of a lit up nebula being born
in the blink of a moment
at the brink of a New Age
sipping freely from the full well
raining Love from the constellation
with a song from the spheres
about the cycles of time
The wheels, they spin
The gears, they turn
The dust drifts away
as the Phoenix flows out from the ash
More at http://dissidentvoice.org/author/scottthomasoutlar/.
A Poor Belly | Pijush Kanti Deb
In a prize-giving ceremony
a belly is found astonished
standing on the stage
holding his given prize-
a piece of rope,
upset too
looking at other prize winners
as at least
fingers are blissful with pen and brush,
eyes and nose with a bunch of flowers,
ears are lost in hilarious clapping,
young heart dances
with a bag- full of likes and comments,
and old soul takes a nap
holding a running piece of peace
and prompted
to leave the stage
throwing a flying kiss and a muted query
to the audience,
“Why to fasten a poor belly
though it’s the only way to heart?”
Even the Air Is Still | Joe McGurn
not convinced that I understand poetry
not convinced that I like it anyway
the way it gets all caught up in words and reflection
the way it mixes imperfect recollections with
a gnawing sense of loss and loss and loss
not sure that there’s an answer to prayers or
if there is anyone who listens to mine or
cares if I am in the midst of a crowd or
sitting alone staring at an empty page pen in hand
wondering where to begin, where to end
a red sun rises in the east red rays color my room
not a sound to be heard this summer morning
not one bird all atwitter in a branch outside
my open window even the air is still
no one hears my passing thoughts fears
I am a quiet morning without a breath of air
a pen scratching aimless inside a notepad.