Every Woman I’ve Ever Loved

featured in the poetry forum November 20, 2017  :: 0 comments

The sun and the moon were her eyes
The bright stars were every smile she gave
She was the depth of darkness in between
and her voice echoed before she spoke

Our dreams rhymed and we visited from time to time
it was always a surprise and it was always sublime
The sun and the moon were her eyes
Under her gaze I could burn and I could glide

She was a bird in my arms and when she sang
I listened but could not understand
She wept the darkness of night
so a stone cast into the sky would be swallowed by her tears

The sun and the moon were her eyes
and they were exactly distant from mine
In her smile every bright star glowed
and flowers grew in her laughter

She bit like an avalanche when I walked the road from her heart
The sun and the moon collided and the stars were washed black
The depth of night became thin as her taught lips
When she spoke the words I knew before she spoke

The sun and the moon were her eyes

– Lot Grundy

editors note:

Forlorn lover, seeking light; tossed by tandem eclipses into lonely night.  – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 18, 2017  :: 0 comments

you must be humble
inside the flame

breath deep
make love
tumble to ash

and let the tears
find their own way

– Josh Weir

editors note:

Lest we forget… – mh clay

Tree Surgery

featured in the poetry forum November 13, 2017  :: 0 comments

You butchered us
along the stone wall
we now stand
flagrant, desolate.
Exposed we’re vulnerable
to October rain,
cleansing air, a clearing
for the sun
the rays poke through
gaps under the rainbow.
War veterans with missing limbs,
our symmetry askew,
never to align again.
Our foliage hangs,
Branches hacked
and splintered,
sap in odourless blobs,
our roots retract in disgust
at the clumsy oaf,
his arms swinging with the bowsaw
aping descendants
desperate for an improved vista.

– Lorraine Carey

editors note:

Priorities askew; destroying view for view. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 6, 2017  :: 0 comments

Smelling of stale perfumes
and rusted razor blades
you slice yourself back into my life again,
and as I bleed for the first time
in years,
as I bleed all over you,
I smile and ask for more,
thinking myself the luckiest man
that you have chosen
to reopen all my old wounds.

– Edward Lee

editors note:

But, it feels so good when they stop! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 5, 2017  :: 0 comments

I don’t know what I was gonna say

you’re the best decorated corner
I’ve ever seen

you nearly touch the floor
with your upright part
most up right now

your legs freestyle in low air
your arms trying to be come
a part
of your head

I think I wanna touch you somewhere

fear that I’ll fall off
if I do

– Steven Minchin

editors note:

When love is best conveyed from afar, maybe. – mh clay

Mummies of the World

featured in the poetry forum October 29, 2017  :: 0 comments

Mummies are fascinating but please,
respect the dead. No chewing gum. No drinks or food. No grieving
for the small ones or for the warriors whose heads were worn
around a victor’s neck. No rosaries for the medical bodies,
pieces of the philanthropic on display.
I count the dead as I count my steps, counting coup,
coup de grâce, please, god, let there be a bench.
Read the captions, the stories, the hieroglyphics,
but do it quickly, my feet hurt.

– Sheri Gabbert

editors note:

Mummification through museum meandering. – mh clay

Mid Century Modern.

featured in the poetry forum October 25, 2017  :: 0 comments

Lines, blocks, and chambers.
Within this space an unmistakable mass.
The regular cadence of its tumbled edges cast watercolor shadows on a grout that matches forgettably closely. And though these walls have not witnessed the exposure of weather in over 60 years, their brusque marriages of wood, paint, carpet, and metal indicate many lives lived here.
In this hopeless cell, choice is amplified.
Breath, and control.
The subtle din of a fan gives way to graphite spilling its truth.
In this field nothing exists.
Struggling effortlessly, a hand guides its implement, leaving crumbs for a chapter yet written.

– Christopher A. Calle

editors note:

Home as homily; the poetry of place. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 20, 2017  :: 0 comments

Circumstances force me to be unpleasant
it leads to a low ebb
…the tides of good thought recede
leaving their naked sand
full of crabs and crawly vermin

where the soul comes to bury love
…watch TV instead
of looking out toward the streets and their gardens,
stuff cigarettes and food
by the load
to manage better what vagrant daydreams
still linger
in an unconscious eye
which would see all things
as beautiful!

– Sam Silva

editors note:

When within renders none, be seen as such by association. Nice guys, all. – mh clay

The End of The Line, Strikethrough Font

featured in the poetry forum October 19, 2017  :: 0 comments

We pay in change and ask the sentence
to seek solace in other forms, maybe roll
into loose-leaf instead, or pen stabbing yourself
to death outside the former car dealership,
inflatable dinosaur, now lumberjack pancake flattened,
no longer hissing air.

The diner is full, as S(entence) has been out of work recently
and asking for references; which pages are open
or what support groups can provide editing.

Had it been me, I’d resort to exhausting all options,
seeking strikethrough if the cards on the table are muddled
and wet, reeking like basement laundered currency.

But instead our day goes on, and eventually,
we all figure it out,

– Alyssa Trivett

editors note:

Words out of work, awaiting gainful employment. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 18, 2017  :: 0 comments

Everything is different, in the horizon the Sun is crumbled
The crumbles remained on the earth’s heart like triumphant arrows.

We can’t recognize the colors through the wind caressing the memory
We do not read poetry in the universe of foolishness
Where relations between darkness and light
Appear just like relations between the wall and thought.

Behind is played the surprising game, just like before
Birds are falling on the ground, just like in times when hell was written,
Oh God, everything has changed,
At a time when a small fence is darkening our big eyes.

The moon finds a path through mummy hands remaining like arrows towards the sky
And the sun dissolving just like a candle through tired eyes
Who can’t see anything in the blue sky, except a small cloud
A cloud darkening everything

Therefore, vision is coiled in space
Just like the wind creating its avalanche
Then many faces appear.
At a night, when everything is different,
Containing inside the borders within your head
When your feet walk through illusions
And squeeze their bad dreams
For the time that isn’t
For the time that wasn’t
For the time that will not come
For the time that goes with the wind.
Utopia struggling against reality
Her dreams hiding at the corner of secrets
Are swallowed

– Ndue Ukaj

Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase

editors note:

This Kosovar poet wrests the reality of reconstruction from explosions of ideology. – mh clay