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Bad Apples | Ralph Monday - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Bad Apples | Ralph Monday

Anachronisms are like bad apples
in a medieval painting of the garden.
A portable typewriter with broken keys,
a 1956 tubed radio without batteries,
a grandmother corseted, grim.
Past relics voicing thin gramophone tongues,
mechanical ghosts groaning machine tones
from a junkyard underworld with no human
to wind their guts; they, like the war-born
grandmother, cry out to the digitals for
permanence.
Instead, wither, decay, while the new human
thumbed instruments buries the old.

Ralph Monday has had over 200 poems published in literary journals and online literary sites. A chapbook, All American Girls and Other Poems was recently published, and a book Lost Houses and American Renditions is forthcoming from Hen House Press.

Slums; All Years | Jim Bellamy - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Slums; All Years | Jim Bellamy

slums, all years; and the stars which rise
console you if they would. words are said
which sully with fears their fled disguise.
and the night must blood the lunacies it lives.

to these faceless passions, i make word thief:-
even so distant, i can taste the grief,
bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gasp.

and the mind must bury the metronomic strides
of the dark and black; and these daily tides
of the dead and dreamt must shorten faith.

the sinuous glide of this thoughtless wraith
will live, or else no ruling schemes begun?
lightning strikes too many mourning times
against this clock and its xerox chimes.

More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.

Nightmares | Craig Warburton - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Nightmares | Craig Warburton

I go to bed and want to sleep
And wake up when alarm goes beep

Some nights they do just stay away
On others they come out to play

Bolt upright and grab my head
Screaming loudly in my bed

I’ve been attacked I’m pretty sure
I nearly break the bedroom door

To a mirror I must race
What has happened to my face?

Always dreading what I’ll see
A face that doesn’t look like me

Panic over all is well
For 2 mins it’s a living hell

What’s the cause…..will they be?
Always such a part of me

Counselling I had for free
Tried it once just to see

Hoped it was a wonder cure
The therapist just wasn’t sure

It doesn’t work for everyone
So no more sessions I was gone

Hynotherapy……worth a try?
Booked online, my hopes were high

I went along with open mind
Hoping answers I would find

His voice so quiet, he tried his best
I feared I’d be his hardest test

It didn’t work I’m sad to say
He couldn’t get my brain to play

No idea what else to try
A magic potion I would buy

To kill them off forever more
Room 101 and lock the door

So til the day they leave me be
They will not win and won’t beat me!

Angry Father | Craig Warburton - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Angry Father | Craig Warburton

An open palm descends on back
Dealt with force a hefty smack

Then another just as bad
I’m scared, upset, a broken lad

Stinging skin that’s turned bright red
What goes on inside his head?

For him to hit me quite so hard
Then tell me not to be so mard

The anger in his face so clear
But no way will I shed a tear

The gritted teeth and wild eyed stare
I can’t fight back it’s so unfair

When it stops I’m on my feet
Go to my room, a safe retreat

And only when I close the door
My silent tears fall to the floor

But now I know the signs and when
This scene will play out once again

Trumping the Homeless | Dennis E. Rager - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Trumping the Homeless | Dennis E. Rager

Into the largest homeless settlement in Manhattan,
workmen advanced like troops of General Patton.
Dastardly avoiding demolition in broad daylight,
for fear, advocates would say, “This is really not right!”

Because the billionaire developer now owned the land,
from the railroad yards all squatters had to be banned.
The henchmen made their move in the approaching twilight,
hoping advocates wouldn’t admonish, “This is really not right!”

The crew was ready to begin construction,
so the shantytown was doomed for destruction.
With orders to clear everything from the site,
as advocates protested, “This is really not right!”

The hard hats remembered the riots in Tompkins Square,
when they were only doing what they were told was fair;
so they prepared themselves for a possible fight,
as the advocates warned, “This is really not right!”

Demanding all squatters promptly vacate the spot.
and anticipating someone might possibly get shot,
they worked in advance of the dawns early light,
over advocates repeating, “This is really not right!”

The bulldozers were coming. The danger was great,
so banishing the trespassers could no long wait.
Ordered to remove all remnants of urban blight,
they ignored advocates chanting, “This is really not right!”

The squatters were given no time to pack,
but they moved on, and they didn’t look back.
When none of the homeless were anywhere in sight,
the advocates plea echoed, “This is really not right!”

With few belongings in hand, they all took to the streets.
The developer was victorious. They accepted their defeat.
The homeless resigned themselves to this grievous slight,
disregarding the advocates’ cry, “This is really not right!

Before sunrise, the abandonment was complete,
after all the former settlers made a hasty retreat.
The billionaire, who was not in the least bit contrite,
ignoring advocates saying, “This is really not right!”

Reluctantly, they retreated, this homeless little band,
desperately searching for another piece of vacant land
to settle until their eviction some entrepreneur would incite,
while the advocates still insisted, “This is really not right!”

Scurrying Home | Ananya S. Guha - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Scurrying Home | Ananya S. Guha

You have never known serpentine streets
which backlash winter’s
withering cold, and the hills
grow, tall masts overhead
summoning that change will
outgrow change and metamorphosis will be
people in jackets in armoury, look strange
behave with poignancy
their smile takes a blast with the wind,
they scurry home
beggars on streets can only hope that the rattle of coins will
increase
in new benisons
they scurry.

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