Are you the publisher? Claim or contact us about this channel


Embed this content in your HTML

Search

Report adult content:

click to rate:

Account: (login)

More Channels


Channel Catalog


older | 1 | 2 | 3 | (Page 4) | 5 | 6 | .... | 10 | newer

    0 0
  • 09/26/14--08:00: Brenton Booth - One Poem
  • Dancing Naked in the Rain

    Rainy Saturday afternoon thinking
    about Whitman’s passage on animals
    from ‘ Song of Myself’ and wondering
    if I will ever write something as great
    as that. I can hear several birds singing
    joyously outside still living fully—
    impervious to the rain. And all the
    people now feeling unfulfilled hiding
    in their homes, cars, shopping centers,
    bars, random awnings, and cafe’s,
    praying for sunshine and better times;
    and I think about taking off all my
    clothes and going outside to the wet
    street and embracing the clouds and
    heavens and all the earth and all of
    life as those birds are—adaptable
    and truly alive; free of ego, prejudice,
    greed, history, religion, race, sex,
    hope—another truly liberated creature
    under the infinite sky; though I can’t:
    I am not an animal, I am human—the
    master species, and cannot live in
    such a liberated way. 



    Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has appeared in many publications, most recently Nerve Cowboy, Lummox, Modern Drunkard, Tree Killer Ink, Lit Up Magazine, Jellyfish Whispers and Dead Snakes.

    0 0
  • 09/30/14--11:54: Amy L. George - Two Poems
  • Danza Acrobatica
     
    The skin moves in ways
    we do not understand.
    Beauty begets beauty,
    touch begets touch,
    fluid movement a
    monument to our
    celebration;
    a twisted banner of red
    encircles our love.

    In early morning,
    we rejoice to feel
    the wind on our faces,
    the sun on our shoulders. Alone,
    we flow in waves of bliss, in
    satin seas beneath the sky
    whose topography
    no man can chart.


    *Ekphrastic poem based on "Danza Acrobatica" by Victoria Vera Rosado



    Before the New Day

    The night crept over the edges
    of the earth, became a silk sheet
    tossed into the sky
    as we sat in the shadow of a chapel
    dreaming pinpoint star dreams.

    The gypsy wind murmured in my ear
    of faith in darkness.
    Lady Moon held her position
    while small streaks of fire
    circled her, danced in her room,
    her children celebrating
    the end of the day.

    Two clouds embraced each other,
    held us in their grasp.

    One bore your name
    and the other, mine.

    They drifted near,
    then together, all of us
    paused, clutching unspoken
    desire for the night,
    the warm blanket ache of shadow,
    the joy of faithful light.



    Amy L. George is a Ph.D. candidate in Literature and Criticism at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing and is the author of Desideratum (Finishing Line Press, 2013), The Fragrance of Memory (Amsterdam Press, 2010), and Sacred Fires and Ebullient Flames (Red Ochre Press, 2011). 

    0 0
  • 10/01/14--11:05: James Brush - One Poem
  • Ghazal for Seven Goddesses

    Pilgrims lost their way and wept, hearts broken
    at the plundered tomb of their slain goddess.

    Forests withered; deserts grew. Clouds stood still
    for summons from a silent rain goddess.

    Did you tremble before rocket engines
    that ended your long lunar reign, goddess?

    The old arthritic masters paint you vain,
    so I near missed you dressed so plain, goddess.

    Myths tell of deities for all things of
    sky and sea. Come fly, oh airplane goddess.

    Gasoline, butane, ethylene, your names
    burn bright, oh my fiery propane goddess.

    I’ll sing the verse, the chorus, chant. I’ll keep
    the lonely beat for your refrain, goddess.



    James Brush lives in Austin, TX, where he teaches high school English. He is the author of Birds Nobody Loves, and A Place Without a Postcard. You can find him online at Coyote Mercury, where he keeps a full list of publications.

    0 0

    The Ruinator
     
    His meltdowns are calculable by the moon,
    by his toothaches,
    and by the migrations of wildebeests thousands of miles away.
    The science of their prediction
    obsesses the priestly caste
    that feeds his delusions of grandeur with arcane obsequieousness,
    secretly gloating even as his
    recurring nightmares
    engulf their own lives.
    The most fortunate of men,
    he takes no pleasure even in his
    stringed generosity;
    only in pulling back the promised prize.
    "You don't respect me!" he cries,
    seeing only the Reaper,
    who truly does not.
     
     
     
    Densetopia
     
    If I have to live in this City of the Future they're building
    on top of the City of Now,
    I swear I'll become like a monkey in the zoo,
    flinging excrement at my keepers and
    ever-ready to bite the hand that tries to feed me
    overpriced tacos
    under the guise of authenticity!

    Humans are social animals, sure; so are chickens,
    but neither is designed to live cooped up
    with barely enough room to spread their wings!
    The prevailing pave-every-parking-lot philosophy
    makes even the run-down strip malls look spacious and pure.

    Unless and until we actually get
    the personal jetpacks once promised by the Future,
    they can take these mini-apartments and
    overwrought tourist fests and
    grub that's more sculptural than edible
    and just – save it, OK?
    Save it until us old coots and biddies
    who don't want to be connected with everyone we know all the time
    die off naturally; can you do that?
    Then the rest of you can bicycle to work next door to your squat,
    where you'll do something prestidigital, get paid in virtual currency,
    and groove on in that post-mod fantasy world
    until all the zombie cows come home
    and kick down the un-stable walls of Densetopia;
    then burn, baby, burn!



    Mariann Garner-Wizard is Texas writer and editor and a member of the Austin Poetry Society. She contributes regularly to The Rag Blogand to HerbClips and has authored or co-authored several books, including two self-published volumes of verse, "SIXTY" (w/ photography by Scout Stormcloud, Lulu, 2006) and "Didn't You Hear Me the First Time?" (Dharma Wizard on Lulu, 2013). Some of her performances in Austin's East by Southeast (ExSE) annual video poetry showcase are available on YouTube.

    0 0
  • 10/07/14--08:30: Ross Knapp - Two Poems
  • Married Couple

    Hurtful truthful
    Stereotypical stale
    Futures so bright
    So planned--
    Following societies’ grand design:
    Twenty to thirty-wedding, make mundane money.
    Thirty to sixty-Protestant wealth, children.
    Sixty to ninety-compromised vacations, then dead.
    Here at twenty-four, we still call each other honey,
    Only two years wed--
    Cracks are beginning to show.
    The once in a while passionate sex--
    The increasing glances of hopelessness
    The spending free time on opposite sides of the house.
    Coming down from the Wuthering Heights of happiness
    Withering civility-
    Fading faithfulness.
    Origin of love, lost in madness and chaos.
    Here we are: a year later—divorce.
    Neither wishing to see the other ever again.
    Just another dark statistical dot of death.



    High School

    Hipsters preaching doctrines
    Far above the rabble in their luxury high-rises.
    Triteness the only new anathema,
    Only one unoriginal thesis
    To add to the church door.
    Bastardize the universal basics
    Leaving all branded with the imperial words--
    Too simple, too archetypal.
    They babble on and on and on
    Like that one annoying alcoholic aunt.
    Graphic design along with materialistic I-Phones
    And ridiculous oculus eyes,
    Clearly qualifying one as omniscient critic.
    They endlessly socialize and
    Schmooze over sugar soaked lattes,
    Showing off their status-booze on Instagram.
    Thirty to forty something moms and dads
    Inevitable inferiority complexes.
    The freshest fad in the land--
    The newest tritest archetype.



    Ross Knapp is a recent college graduate with degrees in philosophy and literature. He has an experimental literary novel forthcoming and various poetry publications in Blue Lake Review, Poetry Pacific Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Belle Reve Literary Journal, Blood and Thunder Literary Magazine, Tipsy Lit Literary Magazine, and Clockwise Cat Literary Magazine.

    0 0
  • 10/08/14--08:00: Marcie Eanes - One Poem
  • Reclaiming Myself

    I stand fearless
    Shunning narrow definitions
    not of my choosing
    Now means 
    no more excuses
    or hiding from truths
    Freeing myself
    from draining relationships
    that left me
    shattered and alone
    Approval's fickle permission
    not needed
    from those who condemn;
    secretly plotting my downfall
    in days, hours minutes.....


    Tattered heart 
    shows 
    ways to repair 
     jagged gashes
    Mornings bring
    exhilaration
    with every new discovery;
    Confidence guides imperfect
    into riches
    far greater than money;
    Uncovering mirrors
    hiding beautiful me
    Resting  soundly
    after actions completed
     in  unrestricted life
    envisioned
    when courage awakened
    fearlessness  



    Marcie Eanes is an independent journalist and poet. A resident of Racine, Wisconsin, Marcie travels frequently to share her work with others. A four-time published poet in di-verse-city, the official anthology of the Austin International Poetry Festival (AIPF), Marcie is a published poet in her right. Her books Sensual Sounds, Passion's Zest and Cameo can be found on amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com

    0 0
  • 10/10/14--08:00: Tom Pescatore - One Poem
  • I Once Appeared to William Blake in a Dream

    I once appeared to 
    William Blake in a dream,
    I was in mourning,
    for daylight had passed onto night,
    I was a shadow lurking
    and he called out
    to a vision of me,
    through me,
    it was raining outside my window,
    there were long streaks and
    gray streets, obscured,
    I could not make out his cry,
    it was muffled by oozing time,
    by corporeal pain, by loosened screwed,
    I tasted stale wine on my tongue,
    he wretched at the smell 
    and I saw in that moment
    I was but a phantom stretching out,
    bleeding into void,
    I was the nothingness sent to take him,
    I was the coward stranger,
    the burning savior,
    I once appeared to 
    William Blake in a dream.



    Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.

    0 0
  • 10/15/14--16:10: Sheikha A. - Two Poems
  • Coelho’s Desert

    I once lived in a desert,
    similar to the one Coelho speaks of;
    I may not have traversed the sand
    or left footprints of my soul on it,
    but I recognise the scent he describes
    and the four-point winds that fill
    my eyes and mouth with its character
    eccentricities.

    I wasn’t born with a fickle mind.
    Surely, the grains of that desert have
    been pervious to my curiosities,

    to have me in an eternal, ambulant search,

    for the scent of my soul has displaced;

    but Coelho’s desert is vast
    with the need for a compass,

    whereas mine fawns
    under a powerful sun,

    disoriented, dislocated,
    tracking nothing but my scent
    to guide me home.


    Santiago

    if you visit my city,
    you will have travelled far

    for what the moon didn’t show
    in Tarifa or Tangier,

    you will see the bloodless white
    glowing shamelessly through;

    the sky is a dark-grey
    having forgotten how a horizon breaks
    or folds across the sea-line

    or how the camel coloured shores
    don’t implode under the touch of feet;

    you may gaze at our honour-bound
    beauty

    so long as you keep it unclaimed –

    the nocturnal winds are sharper
    than the bullets from men’s rifles –

    and your sheep would taste
    burnt meat over our rain-perished
    fields.

    Santiago,

    if you visit my city

    don’t be alarmed for the desert it is not,

    because the moon does lose to an eclipse
    every fortnight.



    Sheikha A. is the author of Spaced (a poetry collection published by Hammer and Anvil Books, 2013) and poetry editor for eFiction India whose works have appeared in numerous publications such as Red Fez, Mad Swirl, American Diversity Report, The Penmen Review, Danse Macabre du Jour, The Rainbow Journal, Sunlit amongst several anthologies as well. She currently writes from Karachi, Pakistan. Her real name is Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani.

    0 0
  • 10/16/14--09:52: Sergio A. Ortiz - Two Poems
  • Ebola

    to the desert
    where redemption is free ...
    Ebola,
    a faraway transparency,
    a swig of blood, a touch?

    West Africa
    just sank into the sea—
    redemption
    held up the shredded 
    faces drenched in tears

    what comes next,
    will we see the corpses flying
    above our heads?
    this jail inside a jail
    inside a sinking desert



    The Color of Death

    her skin chips off
    around the arms like seashells
    then darkens
    just above the ankles…
    a hundred years on the stretcher

    I visit after the stroke
    and hear a knelling—
    half of her body
    silent gold dust,
    the other half a silky sorrow



    Sergio A. Ortiz is the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He lives in San Juan Puerto Rico.  He is a four-time nominee for the 2010-2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology, and a two-time 2010 Pushcart nominee.

    0 0
  • 10/28/14--12:38: Fred Chandler - Two Poems
  • Composite

    A hand drew a face
    It lived
    Became a life
    Was a reflection
    Of the drawer
    Between them
    One a lie
    The other a truth
    One lived on
    The other died



    Forewind

    Everyone is set about moving
    Excited
    Actually hurrying
    To the land ahead
    The new home
    But this all must be done
    Before the sun sets
    Before the evening
    Before night comes
    Where eyes go blind
    To see the way
    Where we're going to
    What was to be
    From one tablet
    Of a great promise
    All teetering on
    The last of the faint light
    Where here is rapidly fading




    Fred Chandler is the author of two chapbooks, A Flying Frog and X Factor. He is a recipient of a National Endowment for the Humanities grant, a fellow of the American Film Institute, a member of the Writers Guild of America and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Fred's poems have appeared in Voices Israel, The Pink Chameleon, Splizz, Northern Stars, Black Lantern, KCET, Danse Macabreand The Storyteller, among other publications. His website can be viewed at www.fredchandler.com.

    0 0
  • 11/05/14--07:30: Chrystal Berche - One Poem
  • City of Angels
     
    A light for each fallen star
    The glowing
    Always growing
    The image of life captured in cheap rays
    Tumultuous neon
    We’ve forgotten the sun
     
    What a shame
    Our existences
    petty feuds
    aspirations
    fumbled efforts at fame
    Pathetic humans
    Trying to prove we’re gods
     
    What a sham
    poster idols
    Painted glass portraits of perfection
    One-dimensional fail
    With crumbling edges
    Hairline fractures already beginning to show
     
    Spackle on the cover up and hide
    battered eyes and jaded glow
    Painted dollface illusions
    Swept from shattered patterns off the floor
    Glued in crooked facsimiles
    Revealed by paparazzi’s press
    The camera sees everything.

     
     
    Chrystal Berche is a writer, photographer and artist living in Iowa. When she isn’t writing she’s taking pictures, or curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap. 

    0 0
  • 11/06/14--08:00: Margaret Boles - One Poem
  • By The Weir Near the Townhall

    The swan's head is red
    rusty almost bloody
    the long neck reaches
    snake-like down
    to the river silt
    searching for food.
    He almost, but not quite
    uptails it, wrestling with
    the mud, ~ I look left
    to the Cathedral, right
    to the thundering weir~
    up at a patch of blue sky
    try to count gulls, ducks,
    geese as they blend in
    to this picture, ~ unlike
    the lone white swan
    with the red rusty marks
    on the crown of his head.




    Margaret Boles has been writing poetry since 1996. Her work has been published in the small presses worldwide, including such places as Poetry Monthly UK, THE Moon, Labor of Love, and Metverse Muse. Margaret's book "The Eye of the Tiger" was published with Sanbun Press.

    0 0

    Postmenopausal Reverie
     
    Carnal cycles feminine moontide flow
    Pressure redly focused
    Cherry pie we said
    Ripened peach stained sweet
    Juicily secretes
    Possibilities
    That make me want to bleed again
    For you

    Sandra Ramos O'Briant's is the author of The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood (La Gente Press, September 2012), which was awarded Best Historical Fiction and Best First Book by International Latino Book Awards. Her short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous print and online journals.
    www.thesandovalsisters.com has a complete listing and links, as well as excerpts from her novel.
     

    0 0
  • 11/25/14--10:01: Benjamin Nash - Two Poems
  • City Lights

    In dark,
    in dark pencil,
    in dark dreary portable,
    in dark dreamy city lights
    a boy is drawing a city in an eye,
    lined in tall skyscrapers,
    a little slice of moon,
    dangling as if 
    a lemon.



    Glue Sniffers

    Under a bridge,
    the color of the skin,
    the color of the rio choluteca,
    the glue sniffers,
    their dreams,
    drift,
    dirty
    river away.



    Benjamin Nash has a few poems published in Red River Review, Illya's Honey, Literary Juice, Southern Poetry Review, and others.



    0 0
  • 11/26/14--08:00: James H. Duncan - One Poem
  • Men of Karma
     
    Iowa, that endless road and fading into
    the mile-wide stormfront of pitch black western
    rain, solid sheets, calling after us, roiling, lashing
    across the Great Plains
    the dirt in the air, cruel and hungry

    boots worn from the eastern highways, rotting
    pants stained by another farmer’s field,
    no money, no going home,
    men of karma crawling
    into another starless night
    speaking words from leather books
    reading poetry aloud from skulls
    explaining lives in order to lose them
    a campfire nobody can see but us

    we count water and days
    we count miles and stones
    we count laughter and bread
    we count lovers and the warnings
    that death leaves for us
    in the middle of the striped highway

    the trick to evading fate another day
    is to taste the dirt in the air
    and feel the earth move within your lungs
    hear the nettles by the roadside speak of
    every blood moon night you’ll share
    between here and the sea
    nothing else matters
    nothing else matters
    until it all adds up and away you go again
     
     
    James H Duncan is the founding editor of Hobo Camp Review and is the author of eight collections of poetry, including Lantern Lit, Vol. 1 (Dog On A Chain Press) and Berlin (Maverick Duck Press). His second collection of short fiction, What Lies In Wait, is due in 2015. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.

    0 0
  • 11/28/14--07:00: Richard Schnap - Two Poems
  • Beastiary

    I pass by the cashiers
    In their identical uniforms
    A colony of ants

    In a line of shoppers
    Talking on cell phones
    A company of parrots

    While across the street
    Students run for the bus
    A herd of antelopes

    And children walk by
    Holding each others hands
    A flock of doves

    As down at the bar
    Old men nurse their beers
    A troop of buffalos

    Waiting for the ones
    That will carry them away
    A murder of crows




    House of Rain

    Once it was the home
    Of a self-loathing beast
    Chained to himself

    And a bird who once flew
    Clear across the ocean
    Until caught in his cage

    Now it is a cave
    Where two creatures hide
    In a mutual darkness

    Waiting to see
    Which one will outlast
    Their dwindling candle




    Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of prine and online publications.

    0 0
  • 12/08/14--09:41: Timothy Pilgrim - One Poem
  • Pee Hate
     
    I sleep cold at low tide,
    back to a naked beach
     
    opening herself to the Pacific --
    own no Nook, cell phone, boat,
     
    wear old jeans, rag coat,
    sift trash, eat molded cheese,
     
    ketchup packs from burger sacks,
    fallen fruit off condo tree --
     
    text my name in water, on sand,
    under a moonless sky, pee hate
     
    through the graveyard gate
    when headstones tug at my thighs.
     
     
     
    Timothy Pilgrim, a Pacific Northwest poet published dozens of journals (such as Cirque and Windfall), is co-author of Bellingham poems (2014) and included in Idaho's Poets: A Centennial Anthology (University of Idaho Press), Tribute to Orpheus II,and Weathered pages: The Poetry Pole.

    0 0
  • 12/11/14--10:55: Scott Wozniak - One Poem
  • Someone’s Son is Sprawled Out
    Bleeding Restitution

     
    Execution rings, alongside
    stale, gun barrel smoke
    in my broken, bleeding ear.
     
    Bewilderment and shock
    jolts my head clockwise
    as aftermath searching
    places me eye level with
    retributions apparatus
    of un-Godly delivery.
     
    I then look sideways
    to see restitution,
    methodically, bleed out
    to mingle in gore
    with New Year rain
    that coats the grime
    of crack rock stomped,
    Tenderloin concrete.
     
    Instinct, frantically, grabs hold
    of my survival techniques,
    and tosses my scarred body
    behind a steel, jalopy bunker
    that’s parked street side.
     
    And the screams
    flail upward on heavy wings
    before the sirens
    can even think to chime in...
     
     
     
    Scott Wozniak is a 37 year old poet, short story writer, and chaos enthusiast that lives in Southern Oregon. His writing has appeared in Red Fez Magazine, Midnight Lane Boutique, and in print at, The Daily Tidings. If you would like to know more about him, please visit, about.me/swozniak.

    0 0
  • 12/13/14--21:52: James Piatt - Two Poems
  • The Evolution of Violence

    Power people
    Spewing scarlet rhetoric
    Like broken glass
    Over the unforgiven,
    Justifying their lies
    With selected ambiguities,

    Words of alienation
    Burning with crimson injustice
    Condemn the innocent
    Masses in ghettos
    To everlasting poverty,

    Throwaway humans
    Unable to escape
    The ego nothingness
    Of the consuming flames
    Of elitist hostility,

    Deadly seeds
    Of helplessness
    Sown in the minds
    Of pitiable alienated youth…
    Breeds violence,

    In the end
    Only brutality
    Hatred and revenge
    Is born in such
    Ruthless ghettos!




    A Miniscule Speck in the Heavens

    From Saturn there appears in the dark sky billions of miles away, a
    tiny luminous dot: It is but an inconspicuous and insignificant chunk
    of water and dirt in the midst of vastness, a tiny crumb floating in
    the darkness of never ending space: The implication of earth being
    such a trivial speck in the vast universe, fails to make an impact
    upon too many minds. Far too often, humans feel their singular
    greatness and importance is vast and everlasting. How can one not
    understand that human hands in search of meaningless wealth are
    destroying the little bit of soil on which we all dwell? What is the
    importance of the accumulation of things, if it creates toxic air,
    polluted streams, and contaminated oceans? What is the value of
    continually amassing worthless objects, trinkets of gold and gems,
    which are ephemeral? What does man actually need in which to live his
    finite life pleasantly and comfortably? When will humans awaken, and
    grasp the nature of what they are doing to the earth; what will our
    future families have left, when this tiny speck of insignificant, yet
    precious damp piece of dust is ruined?



    Dr. Piatt is the author of two poetry books, “The Silent Pond” (2012) and “Ancient Rhythms” (2014). He has had over 585 published, and his poem, “In The Meadow,” was selected as 1 of the 100 best poems of 2014, and his poem, “I Am” was nominated for a 2014 Pushcart award. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.

    0 0
  • 12/22/14--16:01: Stefanie Bennett - Two Poems
  • Arbitrary Symbols 2035  
     
    Such a lame ‘Read-all-about-it...’.
    The news-boy wears high fashion
    red garters,
    corduroy breeches and
    a second-hand
    top hat
    Stars
    peep on through.
     
    Come Sundays – he
    pockets
    small change,
    feeds
    absent-minded pigeons
    and dreams
    of shy
    Black-eyed
                    Susans
    stealing
    the show.
     
    The whole
    of it.
     
     
     
    Chain Lightning
     
    Hard facts sleep softly
    if you let them –,
    like grey shepherds
    in The Good Book
    before conjecture...
     
    Such occurrences
    the mind keeps
    to itself:
    its
     
    humming self.
     
     
     
    Stefanie Bennett has published eighteen books of poetry, a libretto, a novel, and acted as a publishing editor and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee], she was born in Queensland, Australia in 1945. Walleah Press is publishing her latest poetry title, The Vanishing, at year’s end.

older | 1 | 2 | 3 | (Page 4) | 5 | 6 | .... | 10 | newer