society poems

Hole in My Arm | Jesse Hoefling - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

Hole in My Arm | Jesse Hoefling

There’s a hole in my arm–
Where the mind goes
Where the dead howl excretions
Where the blood meets the oily needle
Where memories die
Where heaven touches hell
There is a hole in my arm–
Where the mind goes
Where the soul screams
Where death shouts with applause
Where paradise costs a twenty dollar bill
Where paradise can be reached, touched, for the meanwhile.
the scare tissue, debouched, depraved, reaching for heaven’s bargain
of eternal needles.
There’s a hole in my arm
Where the mind escapes
Where seas foam
Where teeth bite
where the arm is looped off– and the world begins again.
Where the story ends, every time.

More at http://midamericanthought.tumblr.com.

A Previous Life | Donal Mahoney - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

A Previous Life | Donal Mahoney

It was their wedding night and Priya didn’t want to tell her new husband all about it but Bill kept asking where she had learned to walk like that. Finally she told him it was inherited from a previous life, a life she had lived many years ago in India, not far from Bangalore. She had been a cobra kept in a charmer’s basket.

When the charmer found a customer, usually a Brit or Yank, he would play his flute and Priya would uncoil and rise from the basket. Her hood would swell and she would sway as long as the customer had enough money to keep paying the charmer. She never tried to bite a customer but some of the men weren’t the nicest people in the world. You think they would know better than to tease a cobra.

Being a charmer’s cobra was Priya’s job for many years until she finally grew weary of the tiny mice her keeper would feed her so she bit him and he died. His family had Priya decapitated but she was born again later in a small village, this time as a human, a baby girl. After she matured into a young woman, she had a walk, men said, reminiscent of a cobra’s sway.

Priya told Bill she had been married many times in India, England and the United States but always to the wrong man. She would give the men time to correct their behavior but none did. As a result of their failure, she bit them with two little fangs inherited from her life as a cobra. They were hidden next to her incisors. Death was almost instantaneous.

No autopsies were ever performed. Death by natural causes was always the ruling. Priya, however, would move to another state or country before marrying again.

She told Bill she hoped he would be a good husband because she didn’t want to have to move again. She wanted to put down roots and have children. She was curious as to whether they would walk or crawl or maybe do both. But Bill had heard enough. He was already out of bed, had one leg in his tuxedo pants and soon was running down the hall of the 10th floor of the Four Seasons Hotel. He had his rented patent leather shoes in one hand and an umbrella in the other in case he ran into a monsoon.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.

The Cruel Raven | Megan Ryan - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

The Cruel Raven | Megan Ryan

Decrepit soul how blind are thee
To see the world so cold and cruel
From the blood shed of lost lives
Like crushed cocoons of butterflies
Not given the chance to take flight.
You judge so quickly
Of what you can’t understand
Than given the chance
To see through the mask.
Why must you be cold
To judge things before hand
Than learning their secrets
Seeing no rainbow in the sky
After a rainy storm by day.
Why can’t you accept
Things as they are
Let the cocoons grow
So butterflies can flee
From the silky prisons
That held them back.
You the raven
Talons that slice
Butterflies of life
Hope and dreams flee.
The more cruel and heartless
Lesser are the butterflies
Whose only dream is to flee
To go off to live their lives.
As the remaining butterflies
Fly off to distant lands
You sit on your branch
Not willing to take the chance.
Foolish raven are you not,
You are missing quite a lot,
Not willing to take risks
There you perch upon the sticks.

More at http://fairygal11.deviantart.com/.

The Girl with Fear | Keith Russell - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

The Girl with Fear | Keith Russell

She was always living the life of horror and fear,
In this world she was living in, nothing about her seemed too clear.
Everything she came across in her life, she was petrified,
She believed in God but always thought in her heart the devil was
alive.
She was scared to kiss, hug, scared to touch,
Scared of sex because love is a lie and the pain is too much.
She was scared to open those beautiful eyes and see,
Scared she might see something gruesome, including me.
Scared to be happy so she would always be in an indecisive mood,
Scared about gaining weight so she wouldn’t eat any food.
Never had goals and dreams to spread her wings and fly,
Always hated her life and even tho she never understand it she still
was afraid to die.
She never liked being by herself so she was always afraid of being
alone,
But she never gave a dude a chance because she was scared they would
leave her on her own.
Scared of getting old because her beauty might fade away,
Scared of keeping friends because she can’t trust anybody and they might
just turn on her one day.
We all are human beings and we all are afraid of something here,
But this is a girl who has always lived a life of fear.

A Widow and Her Pekingese | Donal Mahoney - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

A Widow and Her Pekingese | Donal Mahoney

Summer evenings
after the news at 6 p.m.
the Widow Murphy comes out
of her tiny bungalow and sits
on her front porch swing
with her ancient Pekingese
yapping mournfully in her lap.
She waves to certain people,
just a few, while ignoring most
although she knows every neighbor
after her long reign on the porch
as the queen of our block.
We live next door but she never
waves to us or says hello to me
not even back when I was 10
and offered to mow her lawn free
for nothing, as I used to put it.
She simply looked away and let
the Pekingese yap her answer.
My father told me then not to worry
about the Widow Murphy’s ways.
Her husband died in Korea, he said.
They never found her son in Viet Nam
and she had a daughter doing life
for murdering a man the jury must
have known had beaten her for years.
The man was her husband and a cop.
Later in my teens my mother said
the Widow Murphy had every right
to be a private person and live out
the remnant of her life as she saw fit.
But when I was 10 cutting our grass,
I thought she was a ventriloquist
and the Pekingese her dummy
yapping for all the world to hear:
Life isn’t fair, isn’t fair, isn’t fair.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

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