The Reason | Roy Pullam
Some say fate
Some say destiny
Others say genetics
Or environment
But the final word
Comes from the judge
When he says jail
comment on poetry
Overstaying | JD DeHart
A poet knows how
to avoid overstaying
his welcome, saying
a few words, veiled
in metaphor laid bare
in simple text, then
shifting away to the turn
of the page.
My Mother's Poem | Mike Ess
My mother is dying and I am crying,
well on the inside anyway.
She’s nearing seventy and I’m nearing fifty,
and I have no idea what to say.
I have not seen nor spoken with her in many years,
long ago I thought there could be no more tears,
But now she is dying and I think I am crying,
well on the inside anyway.
Before she died I flew up to say hi,
before she died I flew up to say bye.
But she never saw me, she wouldn’t see me.
She died with her husband, my father by her side,
she died with her daughters, my sisters by her side,
but she wouldn’t see me, she wouldn’t let me be near.
So she died and I never ever cried, well not on the outside anyway.
A Sinking Bottle (She Explained, Softly) | Paul Tristram
I’m all cried out, one minute,
then waterfall full the next.
The Sun still shines…
but, it’s always somewhere else… yonder.
I hate that word ‘Yonder’
for you can walk all day and night,
until your weary, battered feet
blister and bleed
and you are never any closer to it.
I have great self control,
I will not succumb to the traps
of ‘Covetousness’ nor ‘Envy’
but, ‘Yearning’ masters me truly.
The ‘Feeling’ started
like a Pebble being dropped into a Well.
A falling sensation, giddying at first,
then later… quite sickening.
The Well eventually changed,
reformed into a tumultuous Ocean.
The Pebble an uncorked Bottle,
slave to all external currents
and full up to the very brim
with the ‘Thing’ which is forever
dragging and pulling it downwards.
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Winning | J.K. Durick
We celebrate to celebrate
ourselves
We become the celebration
all swagger and swirl
swig and swell
Enough for back then
for now
momentous, momentary
Eventually, they call us a cab
and the night turns back into
itself
Like losing it falls
back into
the black hole of time.
Bramble Heart | Paul Tristram
I wanted to watch you flower
but all I got was the thorns.
Your shadow,
instead of sunlight
I forgot how to feel warm.
Your pinprick kiss
bled my mouth
as I sat trapped within,
the nonsense of your failure,
a game that I could never win.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
ShoeHorn | Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne
It Was A Trick Of The Light,
To The Wounded Winding Of Springs,
So She Could Lift Her Eyes To The Rift,
Where Mortality Could Be Feasted UpOn,
And With The Rotateing Of Erasure,
Mouths Could Construct Epitaphs In The Corner…
…
Of That Room… A ChamberLess Embryo For A SexLess Sliver,
A ReVerseing Labyrinth Singing To ItSelf For A Body Politic,
Rolling InTo ItSelf To UnCorner And Be Juggled InTo Orbit With Plaster
Cherubs,
As Fertility Dug Deep To Bury The Clock’s Incessant Throne,
Ruleing InTo HerSelf To UnCover Another Jungle…
…
Ignorance Biteing Worth… Pleaseing Richer Ballistics,
A Stoned ForEver Swept Under The Rug To Keep Her Hands Flushed,
Insectile But Not ALone,
Cruelty Granting OnTo Its Union… A Yesterday’s Cutting Through…
…
For Stained Glass…
…
…
Coloring The Faces Of All Those Who Sit BeSide Her,
UpOn Arbor And Brow…
…
…
…
If It Is Good For The Noose,
Then It Be As Good For The Sander.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.