poetry today

Three Questions | Nate Maye

A wise old man
guards the tomb
raising three questions
each time someone
nears.
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
Where do you want to be?
Often, people answer
the first one quickly,
speed through the second,
linger on the third.
The answer is that
where we have been shapes
where we are going.
We choose to let our past
hold us back or lift us up.
This is sometimes even
more important in the
short term than where
we want to be.
Often where we want
to be is less relevant
than who we want to be.

Drop of a Hat | Ananya S. Guha

You, quixotic
You, gnomic
Your head sprouts gashes
Take a tumbler and roll on
A sea coaster and dash the waves
Once you were sprightly
Now ghostly
You macabre-minded ghoul
Remind me of a night owl
the blinded bat, at the drop of a hat.

Outage | Edgar Law

When the room
tilts a surprising ash gray
rain swallows chances
of sunlight
randomly I will invite
a glow into the four
walls of home.

The Dumpster at My Apartment Building | G. Louis Heath

I left an old suitcase in the dumpster a month or so ago.
The woman down the hall with a baby retrieved it. She
thanked me effusively each time she saw me. “No problem,”
I replied. “No problem” every time. She sat on the balcony
with her baby every evening that spring, showered me with
thanks each time I went out. I thought it overdone and began
to take the back entrance.

Letters begin to spill out of her box downstairs. I realize she’s
gone. The return address is the Leavenworth federal prison. I
hold those letters in my hands. They are from a man who has
penned the addresses, to and return, in meticulous blue letters,
full of the love it’s possible to will onto paper, at least what he
is capable of, from deep behind gray, ferro-concrete walls. He
traced over his return address to make it a deep, wide blue, to say
as much in ink as he can say without the letter being read, to ask
as much as he can, to be read.

I feel so sad. Only I am able to share his pain. I almost cry. I feel his pain. I feel her pain, not cliché feel their pain, but really feel their pain. My fingers grow uncomfortable holding those letters. Her baby often cried next door. I always tuned it out. Today I cannot. I really hear it cry.

The Other Woman | Judy Moskowitz

The other woman
Doesn’t have the perks
Of a wife
No vacations with the kids
No Saturday nights
She can’t give him children
No longer in her prime
The other woman appeared
With no history to share
She doesn’t do dishes
Or dirty laundry
That is for his wife
She makes no demands
Has given her unconditional
Love
While knowing she is
Replaceable
And will walk away quietly
Fading
Into yesterday’s shadow

How Do You Sleep | Judy Moskowitz

Can’t seem to feel
Am I a spider
Am I a lie
Can’t seem to dream
Without the frills
I need the pills
Can’t seem to hide
Can’t seem to move
Am I a fraud
Can’t seem to care
Am I illusion
Am I real or a nightmare
They came by car
They came by train
They came by plane
And gave me hugs
And gave me tears
And gave me sweets
I still can’t sleep

The Eureka Stockade | Neil Creighton

The Eureka Flag
(An Australian Dream)

In a wooden stockade the flag they raised —
the southern sky with a cross of silver stars —
declared an egalitarian dream, a new land
where inheritance would never decree
the measure of any individual’s worth
and that any child’s opportunity
should never be limited by wealth or birth.
It was never much more than a dream,
— for sadly there are always the dispossessed
and, for those men, the indigenous and women
were not amongst the reasons for their unrest —
but dreams are much more than mere seeming.
They set a standard for what we think best.
From the blood spilled for this dreaming
into the national consciousness came the idea
that this land would not be based on class
and under the cross of stars and southern sun
a new world of equality of opportunity
could be freely available for everyone.

That flag remains, its vibrance faded,
its corners ragged, torn and worn by time.
It is still the silver stars on deepest blue
but the dream for which it flew
is shredded beyond tatters.
Base and cunning men in their lust for power
have laid siege to the stockade,
with low guile infiltrated the ideals,
besmirched the fragment of justice and fairness
with crass and loathsome things of their invention.
Is “aspirational” now our highest aim?
Is our best a narrow, shallow commercialism,
a smug, mean-spirited complacency,
a relentless seeking for personal advantage,
a competitive pursuit of possessions,
the tiny idea of “relaxed and comfortable”
in a new, divided and insular hierarchy where
worth and opportunity is unequally proportioned
and power and privilege is the real mantra
behind a sad, diminished and empty “monetocracy”?

But Listen! Listen to this land! It speaks!
Its eucalyptus scent, colour, heat haze,
its great brilliant blue beauty of sky,
its stars’ glorious evening blaze,
its distant blue of low mountains,
its tangle and twist of scrub and tree,
its rollers crashing upon the coast,
are crying out for more than mediocrity.
O my country, Wake! Throw off these shackles!
Rebuild your stockade! Dream of great things!
Raise your flag! Let equality of opportunity
again soar high on justice’s wings!
Reclaim the dream! You have the power,
the vote for which the Eureka Flag flew.
It was institutionalised privilege
against which they fought and railed.
Demand equality of opportunity
for all children of this great south land.
Raise again their dream and their flag.
Let children grow together under this southern sun,
this evening blue crossed with silver stars.
Let equality of opportunity be for everyone.

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