Poetry #127

Here we present another diverse group of voices for you to enjoy. Cheers!

The Stain
by Sadie Shorr-Parks

He infested my afternoon
Like maggots to the rot
And stained everything with art.
His eyes leaked into mine.
They’re only oceans
He said, once, while fidgeting
His muscle-entangled arm.

Then he scoured his brain for
A solvent to the abrasive silence
And sputtered  And France,
It’s Beautiful as if the words
Were saturated in ipecac.
A love fermented in the air between
Us, silent as soliel de coucher.

It’s been years, but I still
Remember the hills boiling
off the ground, the wild azaleas, and
Him, a man diseased with goodness,
Earnest as a midnight prayer,
And the alchemy of us
Making something from love’s ash
For as long as we did.

Bio: Sadie Shorr-Parks studied writing at University of Oxford and later at Syracuse University. Her poem will appear in the upcoming issue of Calliope.

THE EXHIBITIONIST
by Judith Fanny Rose

See my dress, electric blue
with lightning bolts
black with thunder

See silent rivers drizzle
down my leaded window eyes
Open to yesterday
tomorrow locked inside

Reversing landscapes of reality
the withered Hag of The North
sits like a lump of coal in my breast
stabbing me if I come to close to memory

She leaves me no room for sighs
and surely Death could love me better

Because there are men there are gods
by Carlos Ponce

We don’t like to be alone
So we invented gods;
And devils,
And witches,
And aliens.

We don’t like to vanish
So we created heavens;
And hells,
And reincarnations,
And illusions.

We don’t like uncertainty
So we made stories;
And legends,
And myths,
And religions.

We don’t like to be neglected
So we pamper priests;
And pastors,
And astrologists,
And psychics.

We are still alone
But we have cathedrals;
And rites,
And doctrines,
And fantasizes.

bill murray pays a visit
by Amber Bromer

invites me to listen to music
asks what my favorite liquor is
shows me his pocket moleskin

we attempt a serious game of chess
but get distracted
noticing how each other sits

he instructs me on my posture
i don’t take criticism well
kick him out

Bill Murray sits on my doorstep for hours
crying, screaming, calling me a whore
I’m still trapped inside wondering where things went wrong

spotted fur coat dark and unattended
by Amber Bromer

What ever happened to that rabbit?
Did he have to gnaw off
both of his front legs
after getting caught in a trap
made for wolves?

Lost in the woods.

You sent him packing after
you learned of his preoccupation
with Hitler.
But who doesn’t have a thing
for The Fuhrer?

On the contrary.

You told me it was because he
bit a close family friend on the hand.
They had spent the afternoon
on the porch listening to Wagner
before blood was drawn.
But he only did that
after being harnessed,
leashed, and poorly led
by you.

Published by Joseph M. Gant

Writer and Open Source enthusiast.

One thought on “Poetry #127

  1. @ Sadie:
    “And sputtered And France,
    It’s Beautiful as if the words
    Were saturated in ipecac.”

    I freaking LOVE this.

    @ Carlos:
    I think I could have written this myself. We are two peas in a pod.

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