Featured Poems


by on February 3, 2023 :: 0 comments

The feeling as an infiltrator
remains inside me.
All-time I travel
on the edge
of my limit.
Weeds grow everywhere;
though I am not
afraid of bankruptcy.
“No! Sir!!
Poverty is the real wealth.”
Blazing sun-light
cannot burn my home
in the Mercury.

editors note:

What’s hot is not when you’re too poor to pay. – mh clay

I dare everything and still live

by on February 2, 2023 :: 0 comments

Home is disintegrating into flakes of Earth.
No matter what you say of the stomach,
it doesn’t still grind like the boys on the street.
Every time the breeze blows, what is left of this home–
all our pride behind feathers is skied to the whole world.
I know of a boy who couldn’t watch his mother smoke fish
on a wedge. He now makes fire, twice the tower of babel,
for a clan to swim & become a steep of sand.
I have a friend known for preying peace in this home.
I think he enjoys soiling solace more than egg sauce on spaghetti.
We were once safe here. Everything was fine before some boys
grew strength to lift destructive tools against our father’s house.
In this home, I was healed, many times.
I remember clothing every cut I reaped from peers’ play
with sand– what my surrogate mother called daring tetanus.
In this home, I was mindless of language.
I dared anyone, anything & still stay alive.
Imagine calling God to rain fire down in place of rain.
God, an ear to the heavens: how do I rebuild this place?
In what language do I programme this home whirling with the wind?

– Blessing Omeiza Ojo

editors note:

After disaster, still alive to ask for answers. – mh clay

A Faint Ticking Sound

by on February 1, 2023 :: 0 comments

A young girl is sweeping dead bees and
cigar butts in the town square while the
last bus tonight is limping out of town
like a broke-dick dog,

and the head-light of a freight train
is giving us the stink-eye,

and there should be a new bottle
of Old Crow in that tackle-box
behind your seat.

So don’t feel too bad, kid,
life ain’t nothing but a circus of numbers

and time is just some grand old
abstract machinery they say makes
a faint ticking sound.

But I always thought that was the sound
of the grass growing.

– Jason Ryberg

editors note:

It’s just a tick-tock tipple to pass some time away. – mh clay

Morning Dew

by on January 31, 2023 :: 0 comments

Sad morning dew falls
On parching crimson petals
Unnamed desires quenched

– Tony Huang

editors note:

This morning, anticipation was better unquenched. – mh clay

This is One of Those Relationship Poems.

by on January 30, 2023 :: 0 comments

Her kisses taste smooth; her mouth is full of knives.
She tosses and slices him up fresh every day like a salad.
The blade of her tongue flashes faster than the speed of light.
You know how these things tend to go.
He turns the other cheek a lot.
He takes walks around the block.
He forgets the beauty of her body.
He forgets the soft rock of their love.
Everything she says about him is true.
His mouth grows wired shut.
He has great admiration for her mind.
She has the quick intelligence of a bird.
He has a brain constructed of concrete.
His cheeks puff out with dumbbells.
If only she wasn’t so always right on right.
Every comment hammers straight the nail of pain.
He calls her Annie Oakley.
He calls her sure shot.
He calls her those things in his mind at work.
He calls her those things in the shower.
He calls her those things walking the dog.
She rides bareback standing on a horse.
With her tongue she shoots him between the eyes.
He has no body armor for her words.
Earplugs only muffle slightly her sharp consonants.
And to think he once loved her scent and her accent.
And to think he once could kiss her scarlet thoughts.

He walked out without goodbye years ago.
He heard she cried continuously for a week.
It never occurred to him she might still love him.
Over twenty years now since he’s been gone.
He’s seen born and raised his very own daughter
And is happily hitched again.
The left one hates him and they never speak.
Fifteen years her gong rang in his skull.
Fifteen years in his head she tried to administer his life.
Fifteen years she told him what to believe and what not.
Now he doesn’t even remember her accent.
In time he even grew to appreciate her sharp slices.
He carefully filed the sharp edges
He actually used some of her criticisms.
Then he learned that she’d had a stroke.
She can’t speak too well right now.
He wonders if God decided the world needed a break.
He apologizes for thinking that.
He doesn’t wish to be vindictive or mean.
This is one of those relationship poems.
You know how they tend to go.
You can wander around in dark rooms for rages and ages of pages.
The person written about is going to look bad.
The person writing is going to come out better.

editors note:

Your chance to write yourself right. – mh clay

Padre’s Prayer

by on January 29, 2023 :: 0 comments

The past has been kind
given my secret remains intact,
hidden under layers of cloth
and holy interdiction.

Like the guilty child in the choir
singing harder than the rest,
my bullshit resonates
around these peeling walls.

I procrastinate when challenged,
pontificate when questioned,
shed tears unbidden for others
while aching to unburden myself.

To breathe clean air;
to speak consistently,
in even tones
without fear of reprisal.

Though I cannot divulge sins
without internal strength,
nor allow a moment’s weakness
to open my vein.

This face is crumpled from smiling;
this customer service facade
of falsehood weakens, though
I keep my council.

Knowing the day will arrive
when I lose everything,
I pray to whomever, please
let it not be today.

Have mercy on this imposter;
leave him not exposed, as the
hypocrite in robes
who speaks over their graves.

editors note:

Robe ripped to reveal the rot within. – mh clay

Dear Sir:

by on January 28, 2023 :: 0 comments

Okay, I’ll go up in your
Master of the Universe

if you’ll come with me
on my Meals on Wheels

You want me to see
our little blue marble.
I just want to see your face.

editors note:

A reasonable request, as far as I can see. – mh clay