Côte D’Azur

featured in the poetry forum July 17, 2018  :: 0 comments

Your heart is aging
Rum in a barrel
Fit for Kings.
Quench my thirst
With dances on
The cobbled
Streets and sand.
Fill my cup with
Your breathing
Tide, and bring
Your tipping
Heart against my
Gentle lips.

– Rachael N. Sanders

editors note:

You gotta go somewhere, risk something (your heart), to drink this vintage. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 16, 2018  :: 0 comments

When I open my eyes
I see glitter exploding in shards
And I hear gran’s voice telling me
I’ll never be able to get it out of my clothes
When I shake my head a little
To make sure I’m still here
The glitter explodes out of my hair
To mine and everyone else’s astonishment
And suddenly it’s like Christmas
And people are gleefully throwing
Fistfuls of this stuff up in the air
And sparkly glass shards bloom
Out of nowhere, they adorn our surroundings
And then I see gran
She’s standing across the room, smiling at me

– Cherie Foo

editors note:

It’s how you play, makes holiday. Grab that glitter and go! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 13, 2018  :: 0 comments

The government doesn’t listen to you until you turn eighteen.
Because until then, you are just a teenager.
A lazy, entitled teenager who’s on their phone too much and should have a summer job.
The government doesn’t listen to you until you turn eighteen.
Until then you are just a teenager.
A teenager who sits on the floor of a dark classroom
Next to the body of your best friend.
And you scream and scream out to a world that will never hear your voice.
A world that is too loud to hear your voice
Too loud with its own partisanship and hatred
A world that will never be quiet enough to listen to a last breath as it escapes the body of a fourteen year old.
The government doesn’t listen to you until you turn eighteen.
Because until then you are just a teenager
A lazy, entitled teenager who’s on their phone too much
Little do they know, you are on your phone to watch a list of casualties climb
Hoping to God you will never recognize a name.
The government doesn’t listen to you until you turn eighteen
Because until then you are just a teenager
And the adults in your life will decide what is right for you
And to speak out against it makes you lazy and entitled
I ask them now, have you witnessed the horrors that we have?
Can you really tell us what is right?
I ask the government now, do you hear us?
Do you hear us hiding in the back corner of our classrooms?
Do you hear us reading the eulogy at too many funerals, for too many friends?
I ask the government, now do you hear us?
Because if a gun fires inside a classroom, and there’s no politician there to hear it, it will always make a sound.

– Lillie Davidson

editors note:

“It’s more complicated than your young minds can comprehend,” we say (all the while hoping they will just get back to their snap chats). – mh clay

The Song Plays On

featured in the poetry forum July 12, 2018  :: 0 comments

Stuck in a unidirectional flow,
staring at ocean view out our window,
sharing wisps of last night’s dreams,
connecting to colors, old melodies,
a wide realm of touchstones,
spinning lack into another great maybe.
Abundance is here, merely hiding,
waiting around the nearest corner,
whistling a happy refrain.
That cloud looks like a heron,
a sign of hope, omen of portent,
potent with potential, a coda
full of unresolved possibility:
wanting warmth, needing love,
not ready for that requiem yet.

– Gary Glauber

editors note:

Cloud watching to wend wonder, fend off the wake a bit longer. – mh clay

Taxonomy of History

featured in the poetry forum July 11, 2018  :: 0 comments

There are three main branches in the study of History:

The History of the Past
The History of What Happened
The History of What the Hell Happened!

The last, less respected than the others, is sometimes known as The History of One Damned Thing After Another.

There are three even less reputable branches of history:

The History of the Future
The History of What Might Have Happened
The History of What Never Happened

Most historians don’t recognize these branches. Even some of the more refined poets look down upon them.

Still they are thunderstorms, pummeling fields of cantankerous, yearning weeds
young weeds that spout from drenched soil and spew outlaw seeds

– Ethan Goffman

editors note:

Damn the outlaws; fix the dirt. – mh clay

Only One

featured in the poetry forum July 10, 2018  :: 0 comments

There is only one tree in my forest.
There is only one sail in my sea.
There is only one fork in my salad.
There is only one song I can sing.
There is only one swing on my playground.
There is only one step to my stair.
There is only one room in my castle.
There is only one braid in my hair.
There is only one tooth in my smile.
There is only one space in my fear.
There is only one step in between us.
There is only one leg on my chair.
There is only one breath I am holding.
There is only one rock in my wall.
How can we divide this between us,
or how can we share it all?

– Rachel Broadway

editors note:

A chance for two to make one enough. – mh clay

The Honeymooners Drive to California

featured in the poetry forum July 8, 2018  :: 0 comments

Third day.
They’d made it
to a trestle bridge in Tennessee.
Watched a sunrise light the mountain fog
and had the musk of morning raise
a chill along their arms.

At a diner,
waiting for more summer,
a shift change waitress war
reminded them of stinging nettles
they’d stumbled into
eighteen hours east.

A day they prayed wouldn’t be an omen
as they moved out into another dawn.

– blue

editors note:

One odd occurrence need not indicate unfortunate eventualities… right? – mh clay

Memphis, TX

featured in the poetry forum July 1, 2018  :: 0 comments

hula girls, forty some odd they
test their ukuleles as you will yourself to
drive to the state park.
it is six in the morning;
late enough in the year for the sun to
wink in your rearview from the direction of the water, you are here to
pursue the greatest plains
the great in plain
you’re not alone.
dance on? they may, and their hips will
seesaw to and fro
their untuned ukuleles reimagined as the restless
hum inside your radio;
a fly does yoga, dead in your cupholder
while six different chain restaurants
beg for lucky seven
and the dives?
they stand solid
upon the silo signs,
along the 309
in the place where cedar fills your eyes
and the weather stays
(more or less)
your parent’s perfect sixty-five.

– Sheridan Davis

editors note:

Just plain great! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 19, 2018  :: 0 comments

There is a crease,
A crease like a pain,
Small and crumbling
Small enough not to take it all away
Small and creased enough to make it uncomfortable forever.
It came because of love
Because the creator and the creation are bound together
It came out of love
Love to protect the creator from unwanted troubles
It forgot it was the creator.
She understands when things go wrong
She will get to know one day because the power is with her.
And the pain was inflicted by that stranger.
Without a thought, without a heart.
Just a convenience.
Bruising two hearts forever,
Scratching the souls.
Hearts get broken,
But souls heal.
Hearts go away from the other.
Souls are together forever.
Hearts beat together in love
Souls are entwined in a single form.
The creator is always the protector, the Mother
The created, the child who will always be inside her soul.
That stranger will cease to exist and at times
The child will scorn and fight the stranger
The child is now strong – strong enough to protect his creator
Roles reverse at times; the creator and the child.
The souls remain entwined forever – the child and the Mother.

– Devapriya Choudhuri

editors note:

A new spin on creationist theory. (Or, maybe not so new; which came first?) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 15, 2018  :: 0 comments

Seized by the dream
I reached out
And you took my hand
With hesitant fingers

Our eyes met briefly
And I admit
There was a sparkle
In the way I smiled

You smiled too
But with dignity
Still bewildered
Struggling to resist

But I bit my lip
And wound my hair
Around my finger
Just the way you liked

Then you melted
And burst into flames
Smothered for so long
In the depths of time

I snapped back
As the heat burned me
Took a sharp breath
And turned away

You were left behind
Yet again
Picking the pieces
Of what you couldn’t have

I am just so, so sorry…

– Aru Bopardikar

editors note:

Supplicant seeks siren for what neither can share. Sorry, indeed. – mh clay