Today’s special is pride pudding, smothered in poor choices. On the menu is a rare insight, with a side order of lifelong regret.
Chef recommends the fear of success. Our sorrow pie is very popular. Would you like a glass of tears with that? Are you ready to order?
When you looked at me you saw yourself and did not like it.
Short And Sweet
Once upon a time, the end.
Yesterday the elm trees nodded. Last night the old oaks were heard panting for breaths. And tomorrow, the lindens will try God’s ever-dwindling patience.
And So It Was Written
Michael said to Gabriel something so beautiful it must not be heard.
Gabriel replied with a valley of mordant water, with a sea’s worth of alum and tears.
With a hill of destruction.
Allow me to apologize for the actions of my contemporaries. I’m afraid they were quite drunk on the wine of living.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,600 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review.
How I hate those poets who rise at dawn to write a couple hours before work— Wallace Stevens especially, Emperor of Ice-Cream, my ass! You’re not the only one with a day job.
And don’t get me started on Ted Kooser, who should be staying up late in the flatlands to watch the milky way flow instead of drinking dawn from a bucket some early bird probably pooped in.
My muse sleeps in a bottle and does not awake until neon lights buzz. She inspires the moon and I do her bidding beneath flickering televisions, whipping a ballpoint to get every last drop.
The only time you’ll see me in the stark morning light is if I’ve had to walk home drunk and forgotten the way.
As the soft skin of your leg conceals the strength of your thigh, I lean in close to hear your voice— quiet as dandelion seeds in autumn with words powerful as a storm.
Hand in hand, enjoying your perfume, your mouth and eyes straighten, no longer curved like the rest of you. I don’t want to relax my grip but know I can’t clutch onto my desire without losing that which I hold most dear.
I was the teacher’s pet not because of my smarts but because of my charm, smooth chocolate compliments and precision tattling.
I knew which bully to befriend for much-needed protection and when to stab him in the back then upgrade to a bigger model.
There will always be men who think they’re great and need little guys, like me, to confirm their awesomeness.
I see the candle flickering in the shadows, the sweet smell of jasmine arouses my thirst for sensual lovemaking. I sit alone in this dark stone cottage nesting in the hills of autumn. The trees are shedding the security of their warmth, of the cold winter that is approaching. I sit all lazy and dazed. I dream of walking hand in hand with the beautiful man I adore, step by step, crunching and crushing the red, brown, and orangey leaves.
The sound of the lambs The tweet tweet tweeting birds sing From my garden swing
Embrace the Reality
Today I feel alive. There’s someone at my door. My heart joining the tapping of every knock. I open the door wide just like the look in my eyes. It’s him, he is here, he’s finally come. I wrap myself around him and embrace him tenderly. We are lost in a stare. My eyes are shut tight. I awaken from the night. I must have fallen to sleep. With the realization of my dream. The cold stone cottage dampens my joy. I crawl from my bed and blow out the candle but there’s no point in making a wish. I look from my window and the leaves have disappeared, replaced by the spirals of icicles neatly webbed between the branches of the trees.
Tea in the morning Pot of herbal for my lunch Wine in the evening
Writer’s block Hello Knock knock Racing against the clock Assignments piled up Until you feel the door unlock
Sit in the garden Sit at the desk Bring the pen to the paper The books you’ve read Will make the words flow
Let the words you drank Filter through your paws
So many hidden doors In this house she’s never lived in before Only in her dreams and nightmares does this house appear Each dream revealing a new room Which has familiarity Sometimes includes her family Doors of happiness Doors of sadness This is just life Clearing her path
A marital inquest In which one should enquire Forgetting the days of one’s desires Togetherness has just expired
Hostage to the virus Where is my protected vest? Will this nightmare rest?
Daisy Green’s inspiration comes from being a victor of domestic abuse who continues to thrive in life. Her words come from the heart and are most often dark. Her purpose, through writing and sharing her poetry, is to empower others to identify their own pain but most importantly to give hope. You can find her work at her blog – Daisy Green and on Facebook
Lift that chin which dropped in love Past hard time was best but tough Heart is not an object, humans are dove A full of hope Sky is always above
Hand me the now empty glass Want to pour in new dreams While drunk on the past ones I realize I have been sailing on a stream
Now a Beast
that purity of your soul shouts like a mistaken beast which not one can comprehend but take themselves as your feast
that purity of your soul knows the mind games they played pampering you enough to beast up until the monster they created is displayed
Kritika blogs at Undressed Thoughts. She has been writing since a year now and has one of her poems, ‘Red Nose’ published at Spillwords Press. Her blog consists of quotes, prose, short stories, artwork, photography and poetry.
Author note:These are six short poems compiled into two linked threads of three poems each, in free verse.
thin as light
holding her thin as light as she looks the other way
there is nothing to do as the world spins and we lie there in the softness of a rug
until the final shade had sipped the moments of light into a soft-touch fade within the arms of night
in the world beneath the moon where secrets shall never leave the doors we close
we follow the path where the spirits play until we see neither wrong nor right
unable to leave until the morning lines have drawn the world once more in the mist of breaking light
Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York. He enjoys literature, art, landscaping, jazz, and international travel. Publications include The Dollhouse Mirror, Seas to Mulberries, and One Hundred Leaves. In the Dark, Soft Earth was just published in April. His work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok: @FrankWatsonPoet
Sailing dark-lit seas measuring infinity’s length traversing star held territory; explorer
Claustrophobia; wrapped up in velvet darkness bright stars blinking past
sharp solar light flares slants between blue, wooded worlds; distant universe
the wideness of stars agoraphobia chokes no central anchor
no refuge; transient world – keep moving man
Freya Pickard is the Author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy set in the world of Nirunen. She writes mainly fantasy tales, with some poetry thrown in. She has published 13 e-books and 6 paperbacks and finds her inspiration in the ocean, beautifully written books, and vinyl music. You can find her poetry at Pure Haiku.
beige irate hidden well within myself smile rejoice believe reverberate inside deeply bury sorrow’s babe float through imagined normal life ignore the toxic warnings to be honest with my pain and let it fly free
to kiss me
silent warm spirit icy wet sweet poison pot draw those thoughts from me
aging hand unfolds soft palm up to the skyline caressing her past
M. Brazfield is a Gen X’er born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is an untrained writer and enjoys sharing her work on her blog WORDS LESS SPOKENon Word Press. Her inspiration comes from life in Los Angeles, particularly Downtown.
The morphine drip is shielded Hidden from plain sight Tucked away in her nest Snuggled under fresh covers No pain, no worries Just solemn slumber Taking a cue from her I push my recliner close to her bed I press my body close to her side Taking her hand, I close my eyes And enjoy peaceful slumber This is the supreme closeness we need Hers to know she’s not alone Assurance as she grasps my hand snuggly As much as I grasp hers And rest we must Her for relief of pain Me for energy restoration And we sleep
What can I tell? When the owl roosts on the branch Each night watching me as I fall to sleep Often, I wondered If the owl knew my thoughts My worries And I often thought he did He came to visit each night Witnessing my young teen life And it seems he stopped by Just when I needed some assurance Of a life truly meant to be certain When my heart was breaking Because of the loss of my brother The owl stopped by each night To make certain I could sleep Hearing his call helped me rest It’s odd, don’t you think? How he came by each night Just when I needed The presence of my brother He came by every night
The light as bright as paperwhites Casting hues of silky sheened pinks And purples, gray shadow tones Tipped in white paintbrush strokes Majestic pillars Supporting the cast of orchestras Trumpeting to the skies Allegiance to life Standing firm Green pillars of strength Mountains call their names
Lisa Tomey has been writing poetry since childhood. She believes in life-long learning and tender, loving care of one’s work. She published her chapbook, Heart Sounds in 2018, and has been in Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine and other publications. Lisa works with poets as an editor. Read her stories and poems online: Prolific Pulse