Featured Poems

The impossible
Is all I ever ask.

The impossible is
All anyone asks of me.

I wish there was
A space

Somewhere
In between

What can be done
And what is needed.

Let me know
If you find it.

I never can.

editors note:

Has anyone found that middle ground? Possibly… – mh clay

The Impossible

by July 17, 2024 0 comments

If I bent, at last, in my hardest place
would I remember a balm or cure in some secret ache–
would I only learn that I had ached all the time,
but that forgetting had been the balm I once found?
Would I find that it was in my hardest place for being hard
and, in learning so, would remembering bend be a cure–
and, in daring a question that remembers an ache
would I remember the bending cure–
or would I learn that in bending again and asking again–
in resolving to better myself, as they call it–
would I learn that at least one ache is still just an ache
even as I also learned that my every hardness can and ought to bend again?

– Benjamin Norman Pierce

editors note:

A bend to cure what aches you. – mh clay

An Ache To Learn

by July 16, 2024 0 comments

Words,
often perfect in their ability
to line up concept with sound,
like the assassin lowering his sights to the limo
and then the crack, dead to a wound.

Say it a few times,
cheat… cheat, cheat
even impartially it has the eyes thinning,
wanting to damn.

The chah
it grabs, accuses, castrates –
then eat
not the soft dining kind,
but the hard to the ‘t’ –
parental command kind.

It has no color, taste, or smell,
but the audible to the brain
evokes immediate impressions,
of dealing off the bottom,
the Sundance Kid,
the neighbor’s philandering husband.

Such power and purpose
comes with respect,
it is no sooner uttered,
than it matters not
whether a rule was really broken.

– Craig Kirchner

editors note:

No sooner said than wronged. – mh clay

Cheat

by July 15, 2024 0 comments

This Tuesday,
every Tuesday
because the 7th best day of the week
needs an esteem boost too,
we all do
Refreshments include
shrink-flation foodstuffs;
unwanted trick-or-treat candies
our kids won’t eat,
unchained mints lifted from Dr. offices,
and such,
DIY squirt cheese crackers,
leftover Chinese takeout,
and collected food samples
from big box stores
Nothing will be gluten-free,
organic,
or fair trade in source
we can no longer afford
to be pious
We will reminisce
about high school achievements,
muscle cars,
cheap gas,
half gallon sized ice cream,
and hard rock bands
before they went soft
BYO
old love letters, or
emotional support stuffed animal
we will supply a burn barrel

– Roy N. Mason

editors note:

I feel so seen. – mh clay

Late-Stage Capitalism Support Group

by July 14, 2024 0 comments

I lived this day:

I hauled my place in space.

I entered the surrounds of others –

noticed maybe, probably forgotten.

I took of time, as all survivors.

Six hundred scents passed through me.

I swelled the few who knew they lived –

those who felt the clock subtract –

but I was one who did too little.

Only this.

editors note:

If this is it, let this be enough. – mh clay

Reminder

by July 13, 2024 0 comments

in our borrowed lives
winning and losing
only briefly matter

lured to a divine playing field

alluding control
we never have

we are captivated
by flashing ripe strawberry
and blinding lemon hues

wide-eyed
we aim to ignite
magnificent billowing
haloed mushrooms

to ruin others
so they know we are here

pixelated faces
melt like candles
on black box screens
above reflections
of our children

who will not be okay

points earned in body counts

at dings and clanks

on forgetful (((pulsating))) scoreboards

awaiting the next player

between our insufficient hands

like chattering pinball flippers
too short to fill our gaps

we fall into digital drains
grasping what could have been
for those we press closest to our hearts

– Louis Efron

editors note:

Can’t even do it with quarters anymore; brain cells debited automatically. – mh clay

Atomic Arcade

by July 12, 2024 0 comments

For my grandfather

The elderly face of the old man
shimmers like worn stone in shadows
of banyan tree. His blossoming
wrinkles beam. Stories fall like pebbles
sneaking into the pool of memories.

For the old man, the rock is not
some chemical substance, nor
is it volcanic magma, an instant
congealed product, but the child
of the mountain, slowly growing.

The old man’s eyesight is failing, yet
he can still see the will and resilience
of a rock that he can bring home
as a grindstone to sharpen the sickles
of his sons, or even his grandsons.

editors note:

Submission makes sharp. Listen, sons! – mh clay

Grindstone

by July 11, 2024 0 comments